Far From Home

by zzzapplezzz

Summary:

Peter was only four years old when he was taken — torn from a life he never had the chance to remember. Raised by Steve Rogers and Tony Stark as if he were their son, he learned to call his kidnappers “Dad” — and to love them unconditionally.

Ten years later, now a bright and obedient teenager, Peter leads an apparently normal life. Until a simple school project sets off a chain of revelations that unravels the web of lies behind his existence.

Torn between the conditional love he received and the brutal truth of who he really is, Peter must face the weight of a stolen past, the impact of years of manipulation, and the deep — and dangerous — bonds that still tie him to the men who raised him.

Chapter 1

Prologue: Before (Part I)

---

Emergency Notice: Amber Alert

This is an Amber Alert issued by the local police.

Date: August 3, 2004
Time: 4:30 PM
A four-year-old boy named Peter Parker went missing in Central Park at around 4:00 PM today. Peter was under the care of his babysitter when he was last seen playing in the playground.

Description of Peter:

Age: 4 years old
Height: Approximately 1 meter
Weight: 15 kg
Hair: Brown and short
Eyes: Brown
Wearing: A blue T-shirt with spider designs, jeans, and red sneakers

Authorities believe that Peter may be in danger. We are asking everyone in and around Central Park to be on the lookout and to immediately report any sighting or information that may assist in the search.
If you have any information on Peter’s whereabouts, please contact the local police at 127-481-0890.

Your cooperation is crucial to bringing Peter home safely.

---

 

“Wow, that’s a nice sandcastle you’ve got there, kid.”

Peter looked up from his latest sculpture and watched curiously as the man behind the fence spoke to him. The first thing he noticed was how much the man resembled one of the spies from his favorite cartoon - so mysterious with his sunglasses and cap, hiding in the shadows cast by the slide. The second thing was that he had spent too much time absentmindedly analyzing the man, and although he didn’t seem offended, still wearing a friendly smile, Peter hurried to respond:

“Actually, it’s not a castle. I built a two-story spaceship with a golf course and a hot tub.”

“Oh, I can see that now,” the man said, kneeling down to get a better look. “Are you planning to add anything else?”

“I don’t know…” Peter murmured thoughtfully. “Maybe a restaurant?”

“That’s a good idea, kid. How about adding a playground for the park’s dogs to play in?”

The boy laughed at the suggestion, his heart racing with excitement at the thought of making a new friend. Peter wasn’t the most sociable child, having just a few playmates he occasionally hung out with, so his insides twisted with anxiety, afraid of saying something wrong and losing the chance to finally have a friend.

“What’s your name?” the man continued, “I’m Tony.”

“Peter.”

“Peter Pan?” he asked, eyes widening in surprise, and Peter let out a giggle at his silliness.

“No, it’s Peter Parker!”

“Oh, yes, Peter Parker.” Tony nodded in understanding. “Well, Peter, I came over because I need to tell you a secret. Can you keep a secret?”

Tony watched fondly as the boy in front of him nodded eagerly, his childish curiosity sparked. He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and said:

“I’m on an ultra-secret mission, and I need your help.”

Tony almost let out a laugh at the boy’s expression—wide eyes and mouth open in awe—the most precious sight he had ever seen.

“M-my help?”

He nodded. “I need someone brave and strong. Do you think you can help me?”

Peter puffed out his chest in determination, trying to look as brave as possible to impress him. “I can. I’m brave and strong.”

“Oh, perfect then! You’re exactly who I needed, Peter.” He praised, watching the boy’s cheeks flush with shyness. “The first thing I need you to do is climb over this fence; you see that car on the other side? I’ll be waiting for you there, timing how long it takes you to reach me.”

The boy bit his lower lip, uneasy. He really wanted to help, wanted to show the man he was strong and brave, but Mrs. Nancy always said that he and the other kids she watched over weren’t allowed to leave the playground without her. When he looked back, he found her sitting on the parents' bench, chatting happily with a tall blond man while she absentmindedly twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

“Can’t you do it, Peter?” Tony pressed, noticing his hesitation. “Can’t climb like a big boy?”

Peter shot him an offended look. “I can!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Peter shook his head, standing up from his place in the sandbox. He could do this quickly, he thought, and Mrs. Nancy wouldn’t even notice he was gone—not with six other kids to keep an eye on.

“No problem, I can climb,” he announced confidently, blushing at the proud look the man gave him as he stood up too, carefully looking around.

“Watch closely which car I go to, okay? When I get there, you climb and run as fast as you can toward me.” When Peter nodded, Tony gave him one last kind smile before saying, “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Then Tony began heading toward his car, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts. He wondered if Mom would be mad; she always seemed to know everything, even when Peter tried to hide things. He didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because as soon as Tony reached the car, he started climbing.

He had never been on an adventure like this, and the adrenaline made his heart race. He nearly lost his balance once or twice in his haste to get down from the fence, but he made it, running toward the car with a wide grin on his face.

When he got there, he found Tony sitting in the driver’s seat, looking just as pleased as he was.

“That’s my boy!” he exclaimed excitedly. He lifted Peter by the armpits, placing him inside the car, buckling him in, and starting the engine. It all happened so fast that Peter barely had time to process it, but soon he remembered his mom saying he couldn’t get into cars with strangers. Although Tony wasn’t a stranger anymore, Peter didn’t want to risk getting into even more trouble than he already would be for climbing the fence.

“Mr. Tony, I can’t…” he managed to mumble, trying in vain to free himself from the seatbelt.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Tony asked, gently taking his hand. “You’ve been such a good boy for me.”

“I can’t leave the playground. My mom doesn’t let me,” Peter explained, hoping he would understand and not get mad.

“It’s okay, I talked to her. She said it’s fine.”

Peter nodded, feeling a little silly. Of course Tony had spoken to his mom—grown-ups are smart and always know what to do. He watched as the park grew more distant, with buildings and shops giving way to a landscape filled with trees and greenery. He didn’t want to be a bothersome boy, but he couldn’t keep his curiosity in check and asked:

“Where are we going, sir?”

Although the man hadn’t taken his eyes off the road, Peter could tell his attention was almost entirely on him. “It’s a surprise, Pete. Do you like surprises?”

“Only the good ones.”

Tony let out a genuine laugh.

“I promise you’ll like this one,” he assured, leaving the rest unsaid. “But tell me, what’s your favorite food? You look like a pizza guy.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “I love pepperoni pizza with pineapple and cheese-stuffed crust!”

“Oh no,” Tony playfully groaned, pretending to make a disgusted face. “Pineapple on pizza is a crime, Peter!”

“No, it’s the best flavor ever!”

“No way! The best flavor ever is margherita. Just tomato and basil—the classic that always works.”

Peter scoffed. “That’s a boring flavor.”

“I’ll show you boring,” Tony teased, poking Peter’s side and making him laugh from the tickling.

“Okay, okay, it’s not a boring flavor!” the boy surrendered, trying to escape Tony’s tickling fingers.

“Say it’s the best flavor ever, and I’ll stop.”

“Margherita is the best flavor ever!” Peter announced, breathless from laughing. He took a few moments to catch his breath before murmuring with a mischievous grin: “Of all the bad ones.”

Tony narrowed his eyes on him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Suddenly, the car’s central screen lit up, showing a call from someone named Steve, whose photo depicted a muscular blond man—vaguely familiar—hugging who Peter recognized as Tony, both smiling.

“How’s it going?” Tony asked as soon as he picked up.

“Everything’s going according to plan. I’m on my way to meet Bucky,” the man, presumably Steve, replied. “No one’s noticed anything yet, but it won’t be long. Did everything go well with him?”

“Better than perfect, Steve.”

“Is he still awake?”

When Tony turned to him, Peter felt caught off guard, realizing he had been eavesdropping. But instead of being upset, Tony just gave him a warm smile and said, “You can say hi, sweetheart?”

Wanting to show the man he was a polite boy, Peter promptly straightened up in his seat and said, in his friendliest voice, “Hello, Mr. Steve.”

“Hello, Mr. Peter,” Steve replied with a hint of humor. “It’s a pleasure to finally be talking to you.”

It was a joke with a bit of truth, Peter realized, and he liked the feeling of having someone who genuinely enjoyed talking to him. He thanked him, a little awkward, suddenly shy about the situation.

“We were just talking about our favorite foods,” Tony continued the conversation. “Can you believe Peter likes pineapple pizza? Tell me that’s not an affront, Steve.”

“Oh, it’s definitely an affront” the blonde continued the joke, closing his eyes in appreciation as he heard Peter laughing.

“You wouldn’t say that if you tried Mr. Antonio’s pizza,” Peter defended himself, mentally preparing to use his best argument: “he even makes the crust with extra cheese, so when you bite into it, it stretches like a spider web!”

“Wow, now that sounds interesting,” Steve agreed. “Maybe one day I’ll give it a try.”

Peter threw a brief mocking glance at Tony, who laughed at his boldness.

“Do you have any other favorite food?” Steve continued, wanting to prolong the moment as much as possible. His insides twisted with unease, anxious to finally be able to touch Peter, hug him, smell him.

The boy thought for a moment. “I like dinosaur-shaped nuggets.”

“You don’t like regular-shaped nuggets?” Tony asked.

“They taste different.”

“Isn’t it all chicken?” Tony teased.

“Actually, there’s a study that says food changes flavor depending on the shape it’s cut into,” Peter explained, reciting the exact words he heard his mom say to dad when he decided to tease her about how she cut Peter’s sandwiches.

“He got you there, Tony.”

“Yeah, I admit defeat,” he joked, taking one hand off the wheel to ruffle Peter’s curls. “Smart little guy, huh?”

Peter shrugged, embarrassed.

“I’m going to hang up now, Tony,” the blonde informed.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, I’ve reached the meeting point,” he clarified, his phone emitting a trembling sound on the other end, as if he was climbing a slightly steep staircase. “I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Peter. I loved our conversation.”

“I loved it too, Mr. Steve.”

When the call ended, the car fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, Tony typing something on the screen while Peter distractedly watched the scenery outside. He wondered where they were going and if mom was really okay with this. The idea that this might actually be a test to see if Peter would be a good boy by staying at the playground and not getting into a stranger’s car crossed his mind, making him nervous.

“Can you call my mommy, please?” Peter asked gently, trying to hide the anxiety consuming him.

Tony gave him a sideways glance. “Of course, I’ll call her in a bit. I’m just waiting for a call.”

Peter nodded in understanding. “Alright.”

“Do you like sweets, Peter?” The man changed the subject.

He said yes, with a smile. “I love sweets!”

“What’s your favorite?”

“I think… apples with peanut butter?”

Tony let out a genuine laugh. “But that’s not a sweet, Peter, that’s healthy food disguised as a sweet. What about, I don’t know, lollipops, cake…?”

“Oh, I love cake! Chocolate cake.”

“Wait, really?” Tony seemed surprised. “That’s a big coincidence because I brought several chocolate cupcakes for us to eat.”

Peter watched with excitement as Tony reached for a closed container in the back seat. It was a blue box, all decorated with little airplanes and kites, and Peter immediately opened it when Tony handed it to him. His stomach growled at the sight of the six cupcakes, carefully decorated with whipped cream and colorful sprinkles. He grabbed one in his hand, moaning in pleasure when he bit into it, the fluffy cake melting on his taste buds.

“Is it good?” Tony asked with a smile. “Steve made them.”

“He makes the best cakes in the world!” Peter exclaimed, lifting the box towards Tony so he could take one too.

“You can have those, Pete, I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure? It’s really good!”

Tony laughed. “I’m sure, sweetheart, they’re all yours.”

With a slight shrug, Peter grabbed another cupcake, biting into it with pleasure. The soft sweetness melted in his mouth, and he wished he could eat something like that every day. At home, it was always his mom who cooked, but she didn’t take many risks in the kitchen, preferring simple and safe recipes. Nothing like this.

By the time he finished the fourth cupcake, Peter felt his body relax. A heavy drowsiness took over his limbs, and his eyes started to burn with sleep. Reluctantly, he closed the box and handed it to Tony, careful not to dirty it with the crumbs sticking to his fingers. The movement seemed slower than it should have been, as if the drowsiness was dragging each gesture.

Peter blinked a few times, trying to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids were too heavy. He tried to resist, focusing his attention on the soft sound of the moving car, but the battle was short. Sleep overtook him before he could react.

The last thing he heard, already half asleep, was Tony’s low, comforting voice:

“We’ll be home soon, dear.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

Peter is fourteen here.

Prologue: After (Part II)

Peter is good at many things; he's a genius in chemistry, animals adore him, and he's surprisingly skilled at doing somersaults. Who would’ve thought, then, that Peter could be so bad at cooking?

“I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be that color,” Tony teased, grimacing at what remained of Peter’s failed attempt at making an omelet. The smell was definitely not the best, and the mixture, which should have been light and golden, had turned an odd shade of gray.

Peter glanced around the kitchen, trying to figure out where he went wrong this time. Maybe he’d left the heat on too high, or maybe it was the wrong amount of ingredients… Or maybe, he just wasn’t cut out for this.

“It’s the eggs' fault,” Peter muttered to himself, tossing the culinary disaster into the trash.

The truth was, Peter wasn’t just bad at cooking; he was a complete disaster. A bitter irony, considering that his mother had been a professional chef before she died giving birth to him. Peter briefly wondered if this was God’s idea of fun, laughing from above and saying something like: “Isn’t this funny, Peter? You made a culinary expert die, and now you can’t even fry a decent egg,” while sipping a glass of wine or something.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, we’ve got time to try again,” his dad comforted him, grabbing some fresh ingredients from the fridge. “We’ll do it together this time because, you know what they say: two negatives make a positive.”

“I’m not sure that applies here,” Peter laughed.

“It definitely does,” Tony retorted with a smile. “Now, come over here and help me make the best omelet your dad has ever eaten. Let’s go.”

Peter nodded, trying to contain his excitement. Together, they started cracking eggs into the bowl, one at a time, while Tony gave him small instructions. They added cheese, seasoning, and bits of bacon, stirring carefully. With every movement Peter made, Tony watched closely, correcting him with a gentle touch on his hand when necessary.

When they poured the mixture into the buttered pan, the two leaned over the stove, watching the cooking process with almost comical concentration, as if each was doing their part to ensure nothing burned.

“Look at that,” Tony murmured, carefully placing the steaming omelet onto a plate. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever made.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, pretending to be offended.

“The second most beautiful thing I’ve ever made,” he corrected himself, laughing.

They spent the next eight seconds of their lives just admiring the most perfectly round, soft, and golden omelet ever created. Then, they began cutting up bananas, strawberries, and mangoes to make an improvised fruit salad—which turned into a big bowl of fondue when Peter decided it was too healthy and poured melted chocolate into it.

Tony arranged everything on a silver tray: the omelet accompanied by a portion of croissants, cheese, salami, and ham, the fondue on the side, and the white tulips—Steve’s favorite—carefully placed in a glass vase, finished off with the birthday card Peter had written.

“I like it,” Peter said, licking the chocolate off the spoon. “Can we go?”

With a silent confirmation from Tony, Peter headed towards his parents’ bedroom, with Tony following closely behind, focused on not dropping anything. When Peter entered, he found his dad still asleep, surrounded by pillows and blankets.

“Shall we wake Steve up?” Tony sang softly, cheerfully.

Steve responded lazily, his voice still sleepy, “Not yet.”

Carefully, Peter climbed onto the bed and snuggled into Steve’s arms, immediately being pulled against his bare chest once Steve recognized him. “Happy birthday, Dad,” he whispered, a little shyly.

When Steve opened his eyes, he found his son already watching him, the childish anticipation clear in his sweet features. He gently caressed Peter’s face as he said, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Standing next to the bed was Tony, his posture relaxed as if bringing Steve breakfast in bed was no big deal. Steve smiled at him. “And what do we have here?”

“Oh, you know, just the best thingl you’ll ever eat,” Tony teased, smiling mischievously at him. “And this here is an omelet.”

“Dad!”

“What? Did I lie?” Tony teased again.

“We made a surprise birthday breakfast for you,” Peter explained, sitting up and pulling Steve with him. “Dad even bought flowers!”

“Wow, flowers?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Tony quipped, handing the tray to Steve. The blond grabbed his hand as he was about to leave, glancing curiously at the small cuts and scratches there. “Don’t ask about those; they were the necessary sacrifices to maintain the appearance of a thoughtful gesture.”

Peter squinted at him, mocking, “Tulips don’t even have thorns.”

The truth was, Tony had never grated a whole block of cheese before, and it had been a battle he shamefully lost. But Peter decided to be merciful and not mention it.

“They don’t because I removed them. Anyway, another year, congrats, all that jazz. Now, about that morning kiss I’m entitled to…”

The blond laughed, pulling his husband by the shirt for a kiss. Peter watched with his usual look of disgust as he chewed on a piece of salami, waiting for the lovebirds to finish.

As soon as they pulled apart, they started eating. Steve complimented the omelet as soon as he tasted it, asking who was responsible, and Tony gave all the credit to Peter with a proud smile on his lips, making him blush.

“I want to know the mess you left in the kitchen?” Steve asked, moving the chocolate container away from Peter before he could start indulging too much.

“We’re in luck today because Peter said he’ll clean it all up.”

“What? I didn’t say that!”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

“Age is starting to show, then,” Peter shot back, quickly dodging the pillow his dad threw at him.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Steve interrupted, laughing at the two. He pulled Peter onto his lap, who immediately snuggled more comfortably into his arms. “Can I open my letter now?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “I almost forgot!”

Steve smiled fondly at him, taking the letter from the tray. He looked at the decorated exterior of the paper, covered in various blue and red hearts, then unfolded it to read its contents:

“Dad,
First of all, Happy Birthday! I hope your day is as amazing as you are.
I know I’ve never been very good with words, but today, more than ever, I felt like I needed to make an effort to tell you how much you mean to me. You are a fundamental part of my life, and I want you to know how much I love you and how grateful I am for everything you’ve done and continue to do for me.
I love you 3000.”

Steve let out a hum of appreciation, making Peter lay his head on his chest with a sudden shyness. “I loved it, sweetheart. Very much.”

“Really?”

Steve let a disbelieving laugh escape. It’s sweet how Peter seems to have no idea of the immense love Steve feels for him, of what Steve would do to keep him happy; to keep him happy by his side. But Steve knows; he knows what he is capable of doing to hold Peter in his arms, to hear his laughter, to smell the scent of his curls.

“Really.” He whispered, covering his son’s face with kisses, only making him snuggle closer.

His perfect little boy, he thought, loving to receive his parents’ affection as much as they love to give it.

“I hate to do this,” Tony interrupted, discreetly putting his phone away after taking a picture he would surely frame later. “But today is Monday, and someone here has school. Happy is downstairs waiting for you.”

Surprisingly, it’s not Peter who groans in protest, but Steve, who holds his son a little tighter, refusing to let him go despite Peter’s playful grumbles.

“Dad, it’s only a few hours. And when I come back, we’re going to eat cake and open presents!”

But it’s not just a few hours for Steve. Every moment away from Peter feels like silent torture, his mind always filled with questions: “What is he doing now? Is he struggling with any assignments? Does he need help finding a specific colored pencil? Is he wanting a hug?” Peter is the center of Steve’s universe, and he assures himself he will never let him go, no matter the cost.

“And it’ll just be the two of us during those hours,” Tony whispered mischievously in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Okay, Steve can make a small exception then.

He reluctantly let Peter go and gave one last kiss to his forehead. “Go before I change my mind,” he joked, trying to mask the uneasy feeling beginning to settle in his stomach.

Peter laughed and pulled away, running to his room to grab his backpack. When he returned, he gave one last wave before heading down the hallway toward the exit. The sound of the door closing was a subtle blow, making Steve deflate.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” Tony tried to reassure him, already used to Steve’s frustration every time Peter goes away from him.

Steve closed his eyes, leaning his head back against Tony’s shoulder.

“I know, but…” He sighed, the words stuck in his throat. The irrational fear of losing Peter, that something or someone would take him away, is always a persistent shadow as well.

It was so much easier when he had Peter by his side all the time, knowing everything his son was doing, everything he was feeling. Now Peter does things that Steve isn’t there to correct, talks to people he doesn’t know are good or not for his son, makes new discoveries that Steve isn’t there to control. It’s agonizing, and Steve doesn’t know how much longer he can handle it.

“Peter will be fine,” Tony continued, knowing his husband well enough to know exactly what he needed to hear. “He’ll sit through some boring classes, talk about nerd stuff with his weird friends, and come back to us, just like always.” Tony placed a few kisses on Steve’s shoulder, trying to distract him.

The two agreed on many things when it came to Peter; no soda, not leaving the house without someone trustworthy (limited to them, Happy, and their uncles, Bucky and Rhodes), among other things. But Peter going to school is something Steve still hasn’t fully adapted to, even a year later, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

Tony accepting it, however, wasn’t really unexpected for Steve, since he always seemed to think first about Peter’s happiness and then about the drawbacks it might bring. He had been angry for a while when Tony was researching schools, the backgrounds of the teachers and students, the safety of the place, and everything else. He was angry because they were both cut from the same damn cloth, because he knew that deep down, like him, Tony didn’t like that situation either.

The truth is that watching Peter grow is as painful as it is wonderful; his boy is becoming an amazing young man, and he’s proud of him, truly. But the dark, possessive feeling that Steve first experienced so many years ago when he saw Peter for the first time — just a curious baby wanting to explore the world when he could barely stand on his own legs — never stopped growing, intensifying more with the mere thought that his son would eventually spread his wings and fly away from the nest. That’s a pain he can’t bear, a wound that throbs constantly in his chest.

As the two lose themselves in the intimacy of the sheets, a school project is about to be submitted. A project that, unbeknownst to Peter, will lead to an unexpected twist in his life — something capable of transforming everything he knows and believes. Again.

Chapter 3

Before

The first sound he heard was his own whimper. The pain in his head was unbearable, and the feeling of nausea made his stomach churn. Peter tried to sit up, but his arms trembled as if they were made of jelly. The blue walls seemed to close in around him, and he felt a tight knot in his throat. He didn’t know where he was, and the confusion mixed with fear left him motionless for a few seconds.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the throbbing pain in his head. When he finally had the courage to open them again, he realized he was in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by toys he had never seen before. There was a stuffed spider beside him, but as he tried to stretch his hand to grab it, his arm fell back onto the bed, lacking strength.

The nausea intensified, and he turned onto his side, hoping the feeling would pass. The ceiling seemed to spin above him, and every movement made his head hurt even more. He wanted to call for his mom, but his voice felt trapped, just like the cry that threatened to escape. Why was everything different? Where were his parents?

Finally, the first sob escaped, but instead of easing his pain, it seemed to amplify it, making his head throb even more. Tears began to roll down his cheeks, soaking the unfamiliar pillow as he sobbed quietly, not understanding what was happening. Peter felt small and fragile, and with every sob, the discomfort in his chest grew, and the emptiness around him made him feel even more lost. He tried once more to call for his mother, but his voice came out weak and trembling, barely rising above a muffled whisper.

Peter continued to cry softly, his sobs mingling with pain and fear. He was curled up in the bed, feeling lost and alone, when suddenly he heard soft footsteps approaching the room. The sound was low, almost as if the person on the other side of the door was trying not to frighten him.

For a moment, Peter held his breath. The sound of the footsteps made his heart race, but there was something comforting about it. He couldn’t explain why, but a part of him wanted to believe that maybe it was his mom coming to him. Perhaps she was finally there to take him home, to hold him, and make everything go back to normal.

With this hope blooming in his mind, he looked at the door, anxious and nervous at the same time. When the doorknob turned and the door opened slowly, Peter's eyes widened, expecting to see his mother’s familiar face.

But instead of her, two men entered the room. Peter looked at them, initially confused, not immediately recognizing who they were. His heart sank for a moment, fear returning with full force. As he focused on one of the faces, something inside him calmed. He remembered Tony—vaguely, but enough to feel a glimmer of safety. The other man, with blonde hair, seemed familiar, but the memory of him was harder to grasp. Peter strained to remember, and after a moment of concentration, he managed to identify the name Steve. The memory was still weak, but it was enough for him to feel a slight sense of relief.

Tony, noticing the recognition in Peter’s eyes, gave a small smile, trying to appear as reassuring as possible. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly, moving closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Peter hesitated, still feeling weak and with his head pounding, but Tony’s presence made him feel a bit safer. “I... I don’t feel good,” he murmured, his voice weak and trembling. “I want my mommy…”

Tony nodded, as if he understood exactly what Peter was going through. “I know, buddy. We’ll take care of you, and soon you’ll feel better. I promise.”

Steve, who was standing nearby, observed the interaction, noting how Peter seemed calmer when talking to Tony. He decided to let Tony take the lead, seeing that the boy felt more comfortable with him.

Peter looked at Tony with hopeful eyes. “Are you going to take me home?” he asked, his voice full of hope. To him, Tony was the key to getting out of this strange situation and back into his mother’s arms.

Tony exchanged a quick glance with Steve before responding:

“You need to rest a little more, but I’m here with you, okay? We’ll take care of everything.”

Although the answer wasn’t exactly what Peter had hoped for, the tone of Tony’s voice and his presence by the bed were enough for him to feel a bit safer. He nodded slightly, still scared and confused, but feeling less alone.

“How about a nice warm bath, sweetie?” Steve suggested softly, leaning down to gently stroke Peter's curls. “That will help you feel better. We can add some bubbles if you want, and I’ll stay with you.” He patiently waited for Peter’s response, watching closely as the boy looked at him with a mix of fatigue and hope. “I even saw some toys in there that will definitely want to join you for a bath.”

Peter perked up at the mention of the toys, trying to nod in agreement, but the intense headache made him whimper. Steve, noticing his discomfort, moved closer. “Shhh, take it easy, sweetheart,” he said gently. Carefully, he pulled the blanket that wrapped the boy, lifted his arms, and settled him in his lap.

“I’ll get the medicine for him,” Tony said, already heading out of the room. Steve nodded absently, busy stroking Peter's face tenderly, trying to soothe him.

“We’re going to take you to the bath now,” Steve said softly, as he adjusted the blanket around the boy, keeping him warm. With careful steps, he carried him to the bathroom. The environment was cozy, illuminated by warm light that reflected off the floating bubbles in the prepared water. Steve set Peter down next to the tub, stepping aside for a moment to take off the blanket and fold it before placing it on the counter. He then knelt down in front of Peter, with a reassuring smile.

“Hands up, sweetie,” Steve asked gently. Peter, still a bit hesitant, complied, lifting his arms with some difficulty. Steve began to carefully remove the little boy's shirt, being cautious not to disturb him more than necessary. Peter's clothes were a bit crumpled and worn, a reflection of what he had been through in the last few hours. Steve paused while pulling off the shirt, noticing the tear-stained marks still visible on the boy's face. He let out a soft sigh, his expression softening as he stroked Peter's fragile shoulders. “There you go, you’re doing really well,” Steve said, encouraging him as he continued to remove the rest of his clothes, carefully folding them beside him.

“Now, let’s get you in the water. I’ll be right here the whole time, okay?”

With one arm around Peter’s small body, Steve helped him into the tub, making sure the water temperature was comforting. The floating bubbles danced around Peter, who started popping them slowly, a curious expression mixed with exhaustion. Steve watched affectionately, a small smile appearing on his lips at seeing his baby finally home.

Soon, Tony returned with a bottle of medicine and a spoon, entering the bathroom with soft steps to not interrupt the moment of calm that Steve had created. “How’s he doing?” Tony asked in a whisper, moving closer to the tub.

“He’s better,” Steve replied quietly, not taking his eyes off Peter, who was now distractedly playing with a little rubber duck. “He’s still got a headache, but the bath seems to be helping.”

Tony nodded in understanding, taking the medicine bottle and opening it carefully. He filled a spoon with the pink liquid and, kneeling beside the tub, called gently, “Peter, I need you to take this so you can feel better, okay?”

Peter looked at the spoon with a hesitant expression. Steve, sensing the doubt on the boy’s face, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, leaning in a little closer. “It’s strawberry, sweetheart,” Steve said with a calming smile. “I promise it doesn’t taste bad. And it will help with the pain.”

Peter blinked a few times, considering Steve’s words, and finally opened his mouth slowly, allowing Tony to administer the medicine. He made a slight grimace at the sweet taste, but the trust in Steve's eyes made him relax, and he swallowed the medicine without complaint.

“Very good,” Tony praised, watching as Peter turned his attention back to the bubbles around him. “Now we just need to wait a little bit, and soon you’ll feel better.”

Steve smiled, continuing to stroke Peter's hair, while Tony stood up to put away the bottle. Medicine taken, Steve decided it was time to finish the bath. He grabbed the liquid soap and began to gently scrub the boy’s body, starting with his small, fragile arms and sliding down to his back. “Let’s get you all clean,” Steve said in a light tone, trying to keep the atmosphere relaxed.

“This soap smells nice, don’t you think?” Peter, now a bit more comfortable, nodded slightly, his eyes still tired, but the faint smile on his lips indicated he was beginning to feel better.

“It does smell nice,” he murmured, leaning against the side of the tub as Steve soaped him up gently.

After finishing his body, Steve wet his hands again and began to lather Peter’s curly hair, making gentle circular motions. “I’m going to make a lot of bubbles here,” he added with a smile, grabbing a handful of foam and placing it on Peter's head like a hat. “Look, you look like a prince with a bubble crown!”

Peter looked up, seeing the foam, and let out a soft laugh. He grabbed some bubbles and placed them on Steve's head, mimicking the gesture. “Now you’re a prince too,” Peter said, feeling a bit more cheerful.

The man laughed at the playful act, feeling a warmth in his chest at seeing the boy happy.

“Well, now we’re both princes,” he declared, making an exaggerated bow in the bathtub, which elicited more laughter from Peter.

“Maybe we need a castle now, huh?” Steve continued, scooping up more foam and forming small towers at the edges of the tub, as if he were building a bubble castle. “Here’s the tower for Prince Peter, and this one is for Prince Steve.”

Peter, caught up in the playful mood, helped shape the “castle” with his small hands, his smile growing with each moment.

“The duck can live in the castle too,” he said, picking up the rubber duck and placing it carefully inside one of the foam towers.

“Of course, the duck can be the castle’s guardian,” Steve suggested, pretending to be serious, which made Peter laugh once more.

After a few minutes of fun, the bubble castle began to slowly collapse in the water, and Peter let out a long yawn, his eyes starting to feel heavy. Steve noticed that fatigue was finally taking over and decided it was time to wrap up the bath.

“Okay, little prince, I think it’s time to let the castle rest too,” Steve said gently, starting to rinse the foam from Peter's hair and body. “Let’s dry you off and get you into a warm outfit, what do you think?”

Peter simply nodded, clearly exhausted. Steve helped him out of the bathtub, wrapping him in a soft, fluffy towel.

“All done,” Steve murmured as he began to carefully dry Peter, keeping the towel around him to prevent him from getting cold. Steve couldn’t resist and took a long sniff of Peter's hair, which was now clean and smelled lightly of vanilla, making Peter giggle.

“What a nice-smelling boy I have here,” Steve joked, smiling as he continued to dry him off.

Peter, a bit embarrassed and slightly drowsy, leaned his head on Steve's shoulder.

“You’re such a good boy, Peter,” he praised, stroking the boy's wet hair. “Let’s get you in bed now so you can rest and have sweet dreams, okay?”

Peter, too tired to respond, simply closed his eyes, snuggling deeper into Steve's comforting touch. With Tony's help, who re-entered the bathroom with a clean pajama set in hand, they dressed Peter, who barely moved, surrendering completely to exhaustion.

“All set, let’s get you to bed,” Tony whispered, carrying him to the bedroom. The boy was practically asleep, breathing softly and peacefully in his arms.

As they walked down the hallway, a vague unease washed over Peter. “But what about Mommy?” he thought, feeling a pang of longing and confusion, but he was too tired to say anything. Automatically, his small fingers moved to his earlobe, searching for the familiar touch that always calmed him.

Steve noticed the gesture with silent affection, recognizing how endearing it was and how typical of Peter. A light smile appeared on his face as he saw the boy snuggling deeper into his husband’s arms, seeking safety and comfort. Tony adjusted the boy in his arms, ensuring Peter was secure as they made their way to the bedroom. Once there, he carefully laid Peter down on the bed, tucking the blankets around him with great care.

“Sweetheart, are you hungry, or would you prefer to eat when you wake up from your nap?” Steve asked softly, smoothing Peter's damp hair that now spread out over the pillow. The boy, his eyes heavy with sleep, murmured softly, “When I wake up,” his voice almost inaudible as he drifted deeper into the world of dreams.

Steve smiled tenderly, watching as Peter nestled into the blankets, his small fingers still touching his earlobe. He stayed by the bed for a few moments longer, ensuring the boy was comfortable and fully asleep, before finally getting up with Tony trailing behind.

Peter was theirs now. And nothing would change that.

^

Peter awoke once more to gentle kisses on his face and an unfamiliar yet irresistible aroma filling his nostrils, causing a hungry rumble in his belly. The owner of the kisses laughed, and Peter opened his eyes to find Tony kneeling beside the bed, wearing a playful smile.

“It’s dinner time,” Tony announced affectionately. “Are you feeling better?”

Peter nodded, stretching in bed and rubbing his eyes to shake off the remnants of sleep before sitting up. With a curious glance, he began to explore the room around him. The walls were painted a soft pastel blue, and the ceiling was adorned with twinkling stars that sparkled enchantingly. In front of the bed, a large open closet displayed a neatly organized collection of clothes and shoes, while shelves all around were filled with colorful toys and stuffed animals. Peter's heart raced as he spotted a Lego box he had wanted for so long: the spectacular Millennium Falcon. It was the gift he had planned to ask Santa for next Christmas, and the mere sight of the box made his eyes shine with excitement.

On the wall beside him, a large shelf filled with books stood out, accompanied by a table brimming with papers, colored pencils, paints, and brushes of various sizes, ready to inspire Peter’s creativity.

“Do you like it?” Tony asked, pleased with the excited expressions on the boy's face, who nodded quickly, still a bit shy. “But what’s this? Did the cat eat your tongue?” Tony joked, leaning in to examine Peter's face with a curious expression. “Let me see if it’s still there.”

“My tongue is here!” Peter replied, laughing and playfully sticking out his tongue.

He then noticed the stuffed spider resting comfortably beside him. It was large and black, with soft fur and several legs. Peter found himself petting it.

“Oh, that’s a very nice spider, isn’t it?” the man said, receiving a “uh-huh” in return. “Do you like spiders, Pete?”

“I love spiders!” he replied enthusiastically. “Did you know there are spiders that live in water? They’re very smart. They make air bubbles and use them to breathe underwater! Isn’t that cool?”

“Really?! So those spiders are like little fish, but with air bubbles?”

Peter let out a giggle, but he nodded.

“Well, I’m a little afraid of spiders, I admit,” Tony confessed.

“You don’t need to be,” Peter reassured him, confident. “Spiders help us by eating the insects that can hurt us, like mosquitoes.”

“Seaking of food,” Tony remembered, “something smells really good, and I want to find out what it is. Shall we?”

“Yes!”

“I hope it’s not a mosquito,” Tony joked.

Peter laughed in agreement, preparing to get out of bed, but Tony gently stopped him.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he said, carefully lifting Peter and settling him in his arms.

“Can I take the spider with me, please?” Peter asked, pointing to the toy on his bed. Tony smiled and bent down to pick up the stuffed animal, placing it comfortably in the boy's arms.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Tony said with a loving smile. “It’s yours; you can take it wherever you want.”

“Oh,” Peter reacted, surprised and happy. “Thank you for the gift, Mr. Tony.”

“You’re welcome, Pete,” Tony replied, amused, giving Peter a gentle pat on the back. “Now let’s go because I’m starving!”

Peter laughed, his eyes shining with excitement. He wrapped one arm around Tony's neck, holding his stuffed spider tightly with the other hand. Feeling safe and comfortable, the boy snuggled against Tony, who carried him easily as they left the room. When they reached the kitchen, they nearly bumped into Steve, who was coming out with a bowl in his hands.

“Oh!” Steve exclaimed, surprised, before breaking into a smile. “I was just coming to look for you guys. You were taking a bit long.”

“Sorry for the delay. We were having a very interesting conversation about spiders, weren’t we, Peter?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, clutching his stuffed animal tighter.

“Oh, and I see you have a very nice spider there,” Steve commented. “Have you given it a name?”

Peter paused to think, then broke into a radiant smile. “Her name is Karen!”

Steve smiled broadly. “Karen, what a wonderful name! I already like her. Do you think Karen will help me decorate the cake I’m making?” He lifted the bowl as a demonstration.

Peter looked at Karen, then back at Steve, and nodded excitedly. “I think so! And I want to help too. Can I? Please?”

“Of course you can,” Steve said as he began pouring the batter into the pan. “It’ll be great to have Karen and you on the team. Now, let me put this in the oven, and we can have dinner. Who's hungry?”

Tony and Peter replied “I am” in unison, making Steve laugh.

“Perfect!” Steve exclaimed, placing the pan in the oven. “Let’s go then.”

As they reached the table, Peter was awestruck by the sight: a whole roasted chicken in the center, with its skin golden and crispy. Surrounding it were perfectly roasted potatoes, tempting with their golden crust. A large bowl held an array of vegetables, including carrots and broccoli, and small pots of sauces accompanied the dish.

“Wow!” Peter exclaimed, his eyes shining at the sight of the chicken leg. “Can I have a leg?”

“You can have the leg, sure,” Tony said, serving the potatoes. “But you need to eat some of the veggies too. How about a little broccoli?”

“I don’t like broccoli,” Peter replied, scrunching his face.

“You have to eat at least one of the two,” Steve chimed in with a friendly smile. “The carrots are great.”

Peter looked at the carrots, then back at the chicken leg. “Okay.”

“Do you want sauce on your chicken?” Tony asked, pointing to the pots. “We have barbecue, cheese sauce, and a spicy sauce, but you better not eat that one.”

“I want the cheese sauce, please,” Peter replied, and Tony poured the sauce gently over the chicken. Peter grabbed the bone and brought the chicken to his mouth, releasing a long “hmmmmm” as the flavor exploded in his mouth.

“I know, kiddo,” Tony agreed, savoring his own meal.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Steve said.

Peter continued to eat eagerly, looking at Steve with a smile. “This is really good, Steve! It’s the best chicken I’ve ever had.”

The blonde smiled contentedly. “Good to know. But only those who finish their plates get to decorate the cake,” he pointed out, indicating Peter’s untouched carrots.

The boy glanced at the carrots and made a face. “But I don’t really like carrots…”

“Oh, but you know,” Tony chimed in while grabbing some barbecue sauce, “eating carrots can help improve your vision. They have a nutrient that turns into vitamin A in our bodies, helping our eyes see better. Just like some spiders have incredible vision for hunting, carrots help keep our eyes healthy and strong, so we can see well in any situation too.”

“Really? So if I eat them, I’ll have spider eyes?!”

Tony laughed. “In a way, yes.”

With renewed excitement, Peter began eating the carrots, feeling motivated by the explanation. The meal continued with light conversation and smiles until Peter asked, after his last bite:

“Is Mommy coming to get me?”

The two men exchanged glances in silence, and Peter realized he needed to explain, fearing they might think he didn’t want to make a cake with them.

“I mean, we can ask her to wait until the cake is ready. She could even help us! Although, Mommy isn’t very good at—”

“Peter.” Tony interrupted, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently. “We need to talk about this.”

Peter felt a shiver down his spine. Whenever adults said, “we need to talk,” it usually meant bad news. But they were having such a nice dinner… So he couldn’t have done anything wrong, right?

Lost in thought, Peter hardly noticed when Tony lifted him from his chair and settled him on his lap, while Steve moved closer.

“Do you remember the super-secret mission I told you about, Peter?” Tony began.

Furrowing his brow in concentration, Peter tried to recall and immediately shrank back. “Oh no, I shouldn’t have left the playground,” he whined, nervous. “She’s going to be mad!”

“No, sweetheart,” Steve reassured him. “Your mommy knows, and she said it’s okay; she’s not angry with you.”

“But,” Tony continued, “if you don’t help us with this super important mission, then everyone could be in danger, Peter. Including your mommy.”

The boy shrank back in fear. He was starting not to like the idea of being on a super-secret mission.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to be scared. We just need to pretend to be a family, Peter. It’s pretty simple, isn’t it? Steve and I are your dads, and you are our son.”

Peter frowned. “But I already have a daddy…”

“I know, sweetheart,” Tony said gently, “but to keep your mommy safe, we need everyone to not know about this. If someone finds out, the bad men could go after your mommy and hurt her. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

Peter whimpered, beginning to feel more distressed. “I want my mommy now,” he demanded, trying to get off Tony’s lap.

“Peter,” Tony tried to calm him, holding him tighter. “Your mommy asked you not to look for her right now. If you two meet, she could get hurt. Do you want her to get hurt?”

“No!” Peter screamed, now truly crying.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Tony murmured, rocking him gently. Peter distractedly noticed Steve extending a cup to him, but he turned his head away. He didn’t want water; he wanted his mommy.

“Mr. Tony, please,” Peter pleaded, his voice trembling and full of tears.

“You can’t call us by our names, Peter,” Tony explained, calm but with an authoritative tone. “Now you call me and Steve daddy, say it to me.”

Peter tried to ignore him, hiding his face in Tony’s chest while he continued to sob. But Tony wouldn’t let up, lifting Peter’s face until their eyes met.

“If you don’t do this, Peter, your mommy will die. Do you want that?”

Peter heard Steve say, “Tony!” in protest, but the sound of his heart pounding in his chest was so loud that it drowned out everything else. He tried to squirm again, trying to escape Tony’s hold, but the man held him even tighter.

“Say it, Peter, or they’ll hurt your mommy. Do it if you love her!”

“DADDY!” Peter screamed, to no one in particular, desperation taking over his voice. Then he began to cry harder, his tears soaking Tony’s chest. The man murmured a “very good” as he stroked Peter’s hair and rocked him in his lap, trying to soothe him.

“It’s just for a while, Peter,” Steve explained, holding Peter’s small hand in his. “If you’re a good boy and do what we ask, I’ll take you back to your mommy.”

Peter took a moment to process what Steve said, the promise sounding like a small ray of hope amidst the confusion. “You swear?” he asked, his voice still trembling but now tinged with a hint of hope. “Just for a little while?”

Steve nodded, his eyes trying to convey the confidence Peter needed. “Of course, sweetheart, just for a little while.”

Peter took a deep breath, feeling the despair slowly replaced by a sense of exhaustion, as Tony’s soothing and Steve’s words calmed his racing heart. He wiped his little hand across his face, clearing away the last stubborn tears.

“I’m sorry for talking to you like that, Peter,” Tony said, his voice somewhat regretful. “But it’s important for you to call us daddy, so the bad men can’t hurt anyone. I don’t want anyone to get hurt; do you?”

Peter nodded slowly, still feeling torn between fear and the need to please.

“Okay, so what do you call me?” Tony asked, encouraging him.

Peter looked at his little hands, the weight of the situation still felt, but finally murmured, “Daddy.”

“Very good, dear,” Tony praised, hugging him tightly and planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. “And him?” he asked, pointing to Steve.

Peter hesitated for a moment. “Daddy?” he finally said, his voice sounding almost like a question.

“That’s right, Pete,” Steve encouraged, smiling. “And you are our son, Peter Stark Rogers. Say it.”

“Peter Stark Rogers,” he repeated, almost as if testing the sound of the new name on his lips. But then, with a small lingering doubt, he asked, “But just for a little while, right?”

“That’s right, dear. And we’re going to have so much fun during that time, I promise,” Tony assured.

Peter nodded lightly, the exhaustion finally weighing on him. He leaned his head against Tony’s chest, closing his eyes as a sigh escaped his lips.

“I wanted Mommy,” he murmured, a touch of sadness still in his voice.

“I know you do,” Steve said, reaching out to gently stroke Peter’s head. “But the important thing is that she’s happy and okay, and she doesn’t want you to be sad. So let’s wash that little face, okay? We have a lot of things to show you.”

Tony kept Peter in his arms as he stood up from the chair, still gently rocking him. Steve was already on his feet, watching with a mix of concern and determination. He knew what they were doing was necessary, but he couldn’t help the tightening in his chest at seeing the boy so confused and scared.

“Let’s wash that little face,” Tony repeated in a lighter tone, trying to bring some normalcy to the situation. “Then we can see some of your new things, how about that?”

Peter didn’t respond, just nodded slightly, his eyes still half-closed, too exhausted to really understand what was happening around him.

Steve led the way to the bathroom, where Tony gently set Peter on the floor. The boy steadied himself, still holding Tony’s hand tightly. Steve knelt by the sink, turning on the faucet to let the warm water run.

“Ready, Peter,” Steve said, picking up a clean cloth and wetting it with water. He carefully began to wipe the boy’s face, his movements gentle and meticulous. “You’re doing a great job, you know?”

Peter blinked, trying to focus on Steve’s eyes. “Am I?”

“Of course you are,” Steve confirmed, his smile small but genuine. “You’re being very brave. And now that we’ve cleaned you up, let’s see what else we can do to make you comfortable.”

Tony dried Peter’s face with a soft towel, wiping away the last drops of water. “Let’s pick out a really nice pajama for you. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

Peter looked at them, still a bit dazed, but the promise of a comfy pajama and new things sparked a faint interest. He allowed himself to be led to the bedroom, where Steve opened the closet, revealing a variety of clothes and pajamas that seemed specially chosen for him.

“Look at this,” Tony pointed, pulling out a pajama with superhero designs that Peter immediately loved. “Do you like this one?”

The boy gave a small, shy but sincere smile. “I like it…”

“Perfect,” Tony said, helping Peter take off his clothes. “We’ll put on this pajama, and then you can choose a toy to take with you when you go to sleep.”

“And Karen?” Peter remembered, looking around.

“Oh, Karen!” Tony smiled. “Steve, can you grab Karen from the kitchen?”

“Sure, and I’ll also take the cake out of the oven,” Steve replied, already moving away, his mind partially focused on the task.

“Hmm, Steve makes the best chocolate cakes, remember?” Tony commented with an excited tone. “It’s going to be delicious.”

“But first, we’re going to decorate it, right?” Peter asked, wanting to make sure.

“Of course we will,” he assured.

Once he finished helping Peter put on the pajama, he took him to the living room, where they settled comfortably on the sofa. Steve joined them shortly after, bringing the stuffed spider in his arms.

“Here it is,” Steve said, handing the spider to Peter, who hugged it with a smile.

“Thank you!” Peter replied, happy.

Tony raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Thank you, who?”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“You're welcome, dear,” Steve responded, ruffling Peter’s hair before sitting next to Tony.

Peter looked at them expectantly. “Are we going to decorate the cake now?”

Steve shook his head, smiling. “Not yet, Peter. The cake needs to cool before we can decorate it. But in the meantime, we can watch a movie. How about that?”

“Oh, okay,” Peter agreed, a bit disappointed but soon excited about the idea of a movie. “Can I choose?”

“Sure,” Tony nodded, handing the remote to him. “You’re the boss today.”

Peter beamed, his small fingers gripping the remote with determination. He settled more into the sofa, focused as he navigated through the options, furrowing his brow as if making a very important decision. Each movie cover seemed more interesting than the last, but he wanted to choose the perfect one.

“This one!” he finally exclaimed, pointing to the screen with enthusiasm. “This looks fun!”

Without waiting for a response, he pressed the button to start the movie, the remote almost slipping from his small hands due to his excitement. The familiar opening music filled the room, and Peter settled in, pulling the blanket over his legs.

But then, he paused for a moment, turning to Tony with a serious look, as if needing confirmation.

“Do you think I chose well?”

Tony smiled warmly. “You chose very well, Peter. I trust your taste.”

Satisfied, Peter returned his attention to the screen, completely engrossed in the movie he had picked. Meanwhile, Tony and Steve kept their gazes fixed on Peter, watching him with an almost reverent attention. His soft skin reflected the gentle light of the film, and his round, rosy cheeks lifted every time a smile appeared on his face.

There was something almost hypnotic in the way Peter lost himself in the movie, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched so closely. For him, it was just a quiet night watching a film. But for Tony and Steve, it was a moment of pure adoration, a chance to appreciate Peter’s sweetness and innocence, capturing every detail as if it were a treasure to be kept.

Every detail of the boy seemed perfect in the eyes of the men, as if Peter were a living work of art, something precious and irreplaceable. They lost themselves in the sight of him, in the way he slightly wrinkled his little round nose when he found something confusing, in the way he murmured to himself,

completely absorbed in the movie. In that instant, nothing else existed except the desire to preserve that purity and innocence that captivated them so deeply.

Chapter 4

After

Peter wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he decided to go to school. Up until a year ago, he was convinced that homeschooling was the best option for him. After all, studying at home meant avoiding a long list of things he absolutely couldn’t stand—starting with waking up early and ending with “too many people.” He had listed 27 reasons not to attend school, and that said a lot about how reluctant he was.

But there was one single reason that tipped the scales the other way.

Make friends.

Life at home had its comfort, of course. Tony and Steve were always around, and the house in the Malibu hills was the quietest place anyone could want. But maybe it was too quiet for a 13-year-old boy who had never had the chance to interact with real teenagers. The only company Peter knew, besides his parents and uncles, were books and the occasional rabbit that showed up in the yard. That’s when he decided: he wanted to go to school. He wanted to know what it was like to have friends, to experience something beyond those silent walls.

Convincing his parents, however, was no easy task. Peter figured it was hard for them to change a routine that had lasted for so many years. Steve, his more laid-back dad, a history professor, took on much of Peter’s education. He balanced his own online classes with Peter’s, prepared meals, and, of course, monitored the countless adventures Peter got into—while trying to make sure Peter didn’t get hurt. Steve’s patience was admirable, but deep down, Peter knew he was exhausted.

Tony, always busy with his engineering lectures and laboratory creations, was responsible for teaching him chemistry and math. Even with limited time, he managed to fit the classes in surprisingly well. For Peter, every moment in the lab was a mix of learning and fun. Watching Tony work with cutting-edge equipment and create brilliant things sparked a passion for science in him that he’d hardly find elsewhere.

Still, he remained firm in his decision. It was a strange conversation, to say the least, full of tense silences. Tony was the first to speak while Steve remained very quiet by his side, his gaze lowered as he twirled the ring on his finger, lost in thought. It was a debate that lasted days, with Peter insisting and pleading mainly with Steve, who was extremely reluctant. In the end, both gave in.

Now, a year later, Peter still hadn’t gotten used to the number 17 on his list: The Distance. Usually, a 40-minute drive shouldn’t be a big deal. But with Happy driving? It was a nightmare. If it were possible to die of boredom, Peter would already be decomposing.

“Are we there yet?” he asked for the fifth time, even though he knew they were still far away. Anything to break the silence.

“No.” Happy replied without taking his eyes off the road.

Peter sighed and slumped against the back of the seat. The conversation seemed like a monumental effort. Another moment of silence dragged on, and he tried again:

“I made a special breakfast for Pops. It’s his birthday.” He waited for a reaction, anything, but only got a dry “hm.” “He loved it. Said it was the best breakfast of his life. Even compared it to five-star restaurant food.”

“Hard to believe.” Happy murmured, his lips curling into something that could hardly be called a smile.

“We bought a cake for later, to sing happy birthday... You’re staying, right?” Peter insisted, trying again to make conversation.

“I have a commitment.” Happy dismissed, ruder than usual.

“What, you have a date?” Peter joked, letting out a little laugh, but what he least expected happened. Happy shot a brief glance in the rearview mirror, visibly annoyed, then closed his face completely. Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh my God, you totally have a date! Where’s it going to be?” He asked, somewhat disbelieving.

Before he could continue the teasing, the expression on Happy’s face darkened even further, and any trace of excitement in Peter vanished as the little window between them began to rise slowly, cutting off what was left of the interaction.

“Okay, so... let’s not talk about it,” Peter murmured, already feeling alone in the back seat again.

The minutes dragged on as the trees gave way to the buildings and establishments of the city. They made a brief stop at Mr. Delmar’s store so Peter could buy two sandwiches—one for him, one for Ned. Something simple to share at lunch. Then, they headed to Midtown High School.

The old school building contrasted with its well-preserved interior. The extensive campus, surrounded by trees, offered a refuge that Peter appreciated. He loved to settle in the shadows to read or snack. His parents chose Midtown for its strong curriculum, modern laboratories, and renowned teachers, but what truly won Peter over were the gardens. There, the landscape comforted him, almost like being at home.

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter said as he got out of the car, with a sideways smile. He turned to the driver, who maintained his typical scowl, and, with a teasing tone, added: “Good luck on your date!” Without waiting for a response, he bolted toward the school, laughing.

The hallways were crowded as always, filled with voices and shoves. Peter had to maneuver carefully to avoid bumping into anyone while heading to his locker. There was Ned, already waiting, leaning and smiling. The two exchanged their characteristic hand touch—a mix of fist bumps, slaps, and a firm handshake—before speaking in unison:

“I missed you, man.”

As previously mentioned, Peter always wanted a friend, someone he could be himself with; but he never imagined he’d be lucky enough to find someone like Ned. From the first day, it seemed like they spoke the same language. They liked the same things—comics, sci-fi movies, video games—but it was more than that. Ned understood Peter in a way no one else did. They laughed at the same jokes, spent hours discussing theories, and made absurd plans about how they’d save the world—or at least survive the next literature test. Peter never thought finding a friend so much like him would be possible, and that’s why Ned wasn’t just a friend. He was that rare kind of person who makes you feel less alone in the world, like you’ve found someone who sees the world the same way you do.

“I just heard that Mrs. Byers is going to assign a group project,” Ned commented as Peter put his things in his locker. “What are the chances we can choose the topic? I’d give anything for a project on Star Wars.”

Peter nodded, laughing.

“But I doubt she’ll let us choose,” Ned continued, shaking his head. “Because apparently we’re all supposed to be as miserable as she is.”

“She seemed pretty excited on Friday talking to Professor Milton.”

“Oh man, don’t remind me. It’s making me sick to my stomach.”

Indeed, remembering the 60-year-old teacher wearing a low-cut top that practically made her breasts spill out, trying to catch the attention of a professor who clearly didn’t want to be there, wasn’t very pleasant at that time of the morning.

“Okay, completely changing the subject before one of us vomits,” Peter said, turning so they could head to the classroom. “Did your parents let you sleep over at my place tonight?”

Ned nodded, excited. “Oh man, it’s going to be awesome! We can stay up late watching movies and eating cake.”

“Naah, my parents won’t allow it. Tomorrow’s a school day,” Peter shrugged, but then gave Ned a mischievous look. “So we’ll have to be really quiet.”

When they reached the classroom door, Peter and Ned found Mrs. Byers about to close it. She looked at them with a stern expression, but with a resigned sigh, let them in. They hurried to their seats, trying not to attract more attention than necessary.

“Good morning, students,” Mrs. Byers began, her heels clicking on the silent classroom floor. “This semester, instead of the usual tests, I will be assigning a group project that will be presented in class and will count the same as a test, 4 points on the average.”

The class immediately filled with murmurs. Some were visibly excited about the idea, while others seemed irritated by the change.

“The topic of this project will be: Serial Killers.” Mrs. Byers let the phrase hang in the air, increasing the buzz in the room.

“Now, the goal of this project is not just to pick a famous case and talk about the crime,” she continued, her voice gaining a more intense tone. “The goal is for you to research deeply about the life of the killer, their childhood, their possible motivations. Is it possible for a person to be born evil? Or is it the environment they grew up in, the people they interacted with, that influenced them? Maybe some other reason? I want you to question it.”

The murmurs intensified; some students seemed intrigued while others felt uncomfortable with the deep and personal approach of the project.

“You will have two weeks to complete the research and prepare the presentation,” Mrs. Byers finished, before turning to the board and beginning to write details about the project. When she was done, she picked up a box full of small folded papers and said: “The pairs will be random. I’ll pick a paper, and whoever I call should come up and pick the name of their partner.”

The room seemed to deflate with the announcement. Peter glanced at Ned, who was already looking at him, clearly frustrated. Mrs. Byers began calling names, and pairs were formed gradually.

“Peter Stark,” she called. He stood up slowly, walked to the front of the room, and picked up the paper. It wasn’t Ned’s name on the list, and he sighed, disappointed. But when he actually read the name in his hand, his face immediately flushed.

“And then?” the teacher asked impatiently.

“M-Michelle Jones,” he murmured. He looked up and found her at the back of the room, distracted, probably drawing. But then she heard her name and looked at him. For a moment, their gazes met. Peter returned to his seat with his face burning, while Ned tried to stifle his laughter beside him.

The class passed in a blur for Peter, who was completely absorbed in his thoughts. Michelle Jones, or MJ as everyone called her, wasn’t just the prettiest girl in school; she was also the smartest and most intriguing. She always seemed to be in her own world, drawing in silence, observing everything with that critical gaze that made Peter break into a sweat. And now, by some cosmic alignment he didn’t understand, they would be working together. Alone. His heart raced so fast he feared he might faint at any moment.

He tried to focus on the class, but all he could think about was what he would say to her. Should he start planning how they would divide the work? Or maybe she would want to do everything on her own. Or worse... maybe she didn’t even want to talk to him! He was definitely starting to hyperventilate.

“At least you didn’t get Flash,” Ned whispered beside him, interrupting his train of thought.

Peter blinked a few times, returning to reality. “Yeah, that would be worse...” he murmured back, trying to appear calm. But inside, he was in complete panic. How was someone like him going to manage na entire project with MJ without completely embarrassing himself?

Ned glanced at him from the corner of his eye, a smirk on his face. “Relax, man. It’s just a project.”

Just a project. Peter swallowed hard. As if it were that easy.

When the bell rang, signaling the start of recess, Peter and Ned got up with the other students and headed toward the door. Peter, distracted, was talking about the sandwiches he had bought that morning when he heard his name being called. He turned quickly, and there was MJ, walking towards him.

“Hi,” he managed to say, feeling the words almost stick in his throat. Ned, the traitor, gave a knowing smile and said, “I’ll see you at our spot,” before disappearing into the crowd.

“Hey,” she replied casually, as if it were no big deal.

For a few awkward seconds, they stood there, staring at each other, while Peter struggled to seem normal and failed miserably.

“I just wanted to know if you’re free to work on the project at my place. Maybe tomorrow?” MJ asked, straightforwardly.

Peter’s palms started sweating immediately. He discreetly wiped them on his shirt, trying not to appear even more nervous.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine. Tomorrow,” he replied quickly, trying to sound calm but with his heart racing.

She smiled, a simple smile, but to Peter, it felt like the sunrise. He could barely believe this was happening.

“Give me your number, and I’ll text you my address,” she said.

Exchange numbers? Oh, God. Peter, awkwardly, pulled out his phone from his pocket, almost dropping it on the floor. MJ quickly dialed her number into his phone, and before he could process what had just happened, she left, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume.

For a moment, he stood there, trying to understand what had just transpired. Peter had to force himself not to smell his phone in front of everyone, like a crazy dog trying to catch her scent.

“You know what this reminds me of?” Ned commented later, when the classes finally ended and everyone was getting ready to leave. “That movie with Emma Dwayne, where she ends up with the weird nerd in the class because he was the only one left without a partner.”

“You’re saying I remind you of the weird nerd from the movie?” Peter replied, raising na eyebrow.

“He definitely turned red just like you,” Ned teased, a mischievous smile on his face.

Peter rolled his eyes and huffed. “I was holding in a sneeze, man.”

“Sure.”

“Go screw yourself, Ned,” Peter retorted, shaking his head, but couldn’t help laughing along. The truth was, he was incredibly nervous, and Ned knew it.

They arrived at the parking lot expecting to see Happy’s usual black SUV, but to their surprise, they found Steve and Tony casually talking beside a sports car. Peter stopped for a second, confused, but walked over with Ned. It was Steve who noticed them first, quickly shifting his focus to his son.

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, pulling Peter into a tight hug. He brushed the boy’s curls from his forehead to look at him properly, his touch gentle and paternal on Peter’s cheek.

“Hey, Dad,” Peter replied, struggling against the urge to close his eyes and snuggle more into his father’s embrace. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We decided to eat out today,” Tony announced, appearing beside Steve. He took Peter’s backpack off his shoulders, relieving the boy of the weight, and did the same with Ned’s. “Hey, Ted, how were classes?”

“It was all good, Mr. Tony,” Ned replied, as enthusiastic as ever. “Oh, happy birthday, Mr. Steve!”

Steve laughed, a genuine smile on his face. “Just Steve is fine, Ned. And thanks. Are you guys hungry?”

The boys nodded, barely able to contain their excitement.

“Great, because we’re heading to a place that literally has the best burger in town,” Tony said, winking at Peter. “And don’t worry, Steve won’t force anyone to eat salad today.”

Steve shot a mildly reproachful look, crossing his arms. “I’m not that annoying.”

Tony huffed, laughing.

“True, he’s just a little obsessed with healthy, pesticide-free food,” Peter pretended to defend him, receiving a betrayed look from his father.

“Not even on my day can you leave me alone,” Steve dramatized, opening the car door for Peter and Ned to get in.

“Ned’s parents let him stay over at our home tonight,” Peter announced animatedly as everyone settled into the car. “Can we start a campfire and roast marshmallows?”

“We could camp outside too!” Ned suggested, animated.

“Yes! We still have those tents, right, Dad?” Peter asked, already excited about the idea.

“I think they’re somewhere in the garage,” Steve replied. “But no marshmallows, Pete, you guys are having cake.”

Tony murmured a “boring” under his breath, and Steve shot him a reproachful look.

“Oh, Dad, it won’t be fun without the campfire!” Peter insisted.

“You can make the campfire and heat up cans of beans, like in zombie movies,” Steve suggested, smiling at the idea.

Peter huffed, rolling his eyes. “Beans? Seriously?”

“I think it’s brilliant!” Ned got excited. “We could pretend we’re in The Walking Dead, like, sharing a can of beans because it’s all we managed to scavenge.”

Peter shrugged, now more interested. “And if we get a piece of meat and roast it on the campfire? I could be Daryl, responsible for hunting... in the fridge.”

“Oh, I wanted to be Daryl!” Ned protested.

“I say it first,” Peter boasted, with a side smile.

As the boys laughed and debated who would be who, Steve and Tony just watched, exchanging amused glances. Steve couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief seeing his son play so innocently and carefree. That was all he wanted; for his son to stay happy and worry-free. But reality never let him dream for too long.

“…and we’ve planned to do the project at her place tomorrow. She’s supposed to send me the address today.”

Peter’s words floated through the air, but something in them made Steve’s chest tighten. He narrowed his eyes, his attention pulled back to the conversation, though he wasn’t sure when he had started to zone out. The direction of this... didn’t feel right.

“What?” Steve asked, his voice somewhat sharp, though he tried to sound casual.

Peter looked at his father, noticing the change in tone. “I was talking about going to MJ’s house tomorrow to work on a project.”

Steve felt immediate discomfort spreading through him. MJ’s house? How had he not known about this before? His mind raced, seeking answers.

“How can you plan something without consulting us first, Peter?” Tony joined in, his eyes now fixed on the boy. His tone was more controlled but carried a subtle authority.

“I—Well, I thought, since it was for a grade, it wouldn’t be a problem…” Peter began, already feeling the ground become unstable.

Steve, however, had already made up his mind. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “So, I’m supposed to let my son go to a house I don’t know, with people I don’t know, just because ‘it’s for a grade’!?“ His voice sounded harsher, almost a warning.

Peter hesitated, trying to stay calm. “When you put it that way...”

“You’re not going,” Steve decreed, with no room for negotiation. “She can do the project at our house.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Peter, his hands now clenched into fists, looked directly at his father, a wave of frustration rising in his chest. “This doesn’t even make sense! Why can’t I go, but you think she’ll be allowed to come to our house, where there are two men she doesn’t even know? This is ridiculous!”

Steve blinked, surprised by his son’s sharp response, but before he could retort, Tony responded, his tone menacing:

“I suggest you rethink your tone, Peter.”

The car sank into na uncomfortable silence. Steve glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his son struggling to hold back tears, which made his heart ache. Next to him, Ned feigned interest in the view outside the window, huddled in the seat as if he wanted to disappear. Steve took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before speaking again.

“You’re fourteen, Peter. You can’t make decisions like this without talking to us first,” he said, calmer but still firm.

“I know...” Peter murmured, his voice almost inaudible.

Steve softened his tone. “Why don’t you ask if she can do the project at our house? If not, we can take you to a library or a park. What do you think?”

Peter nodded, his head bowed, still visibly shaken by Tony’s reprimand. Steve fought the urge to turn around and hug him, to hold him until the sadness passed. Instead, he extended his hand back, a silent gesture of comfort. Peter quickly grabbed his father’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“We’ve arrived,” Tony announced, breaking the moment as he parked the car in front of the restaurant.

They got out of the car, and Peter immediately went to Steve’s side, avoiding Tony. It was behavior Steve knew well; since he was little, whenever one of his parents upset him, Peter would run to the other, seeking comfort. But Tony, noticing the distance, came over and wrapped na arm around the boy, pulling him close. Steve tried to hide a smile. He loved his family.

“And you, Ned, are you working on the project too?” Tony asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Um... yes, but with someone else,” Ned replied, somewhat awkwardly. “We wanted to work together, but the teacher drew the pairs, and we didn’t get so lucky. I mean, I did, because I got paired with Jason, and he’s kind of obsessed with criminal stuff, so who knows where we’ll research.”

“Criminal stuff?” Tony raised na eyebrow, intrigued.

“Yes,” Ned said, shrugging with a playful smile. “She came up with this project about serial killers on a Monday morning, out of nowhere.”

“But it’s not exactly about the crimes,” Peter interrupted, knowing full well how his parents might react. It wouldn’t be surprising if they went to the teacher to lecture her about traumatizing kids with dark projects. “It’s more of a psychological thing, I think? Like, we need to study their lives, childhood, and all that.”

Tony made a sound of understanding as the waiter arrived to introduce the restaurant and then led them to their table. Curiously, the place famous for the best burger in town was actually a predominantly Japanese restaurant. They settled at a table near a large aquarium, filled with colorful and exotic fish. Peter momentarily lost himself in the beauty of the fish, his mind drifting with their calm movement in the water.

“Look, isn’t that Dory?” Ned pointed excitedly at a blue fish swimming near the glass.

“Nah, I think it’s just blue, but it’s not the same species,” Peter replied, still focused on the aquarium. “Dory had that yellow thing, didn’t she? A stripe? I don’t remember exactly.”

“Pete,” his father called, handing him the menu and passing another one to Ned. “Order whatever you want.”

Peter and Ned exchanged knowing glances, with that kind of silent enthusiasm that only long-time friends share.

“I think I’ll get a Yakisoba,” Steve commented, still undecided among so many options.

“I want this!” Peter announced excitedly, pointing to the image of a monstrous burger with four layers of meat, generous portions of cheddar, and a pile of bacon.

Tony laughed. “Good choice, dear. Steve, do you want to take a look at the burger your son picked?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Steve replied, shaking his head with a resigned smile.

After a few minutes of idle chatter, with Peter and Ned leading the lively conversation, the waiter arrived with a steaming bowl of Yakisoba for Steve, accompanied by a fortune cookie. Soon after, the three burgers arrived, each with a generous serving of fries. Peter tried to ignore Steve’s surprised look at the size of the burger. Honestly, even he was shocked. “How am I going to bite into this?” he wondered.

“Open it, Dad, it’s your birthday fortune,” Peter requested with a twinkle in his eye, handing the fortune cookie to Steve. He took the cookie with a smile, cracked it open carefully, and pulled out the small slip of paper. His eyebrow raised slightly as he read.

“What does it say?” Peter asked, curious.

“Some secrets have a quiet way of emerging,” Steve read, smiling despite the confusion.

“How boring,” Peter grumbled before taking a bite of the giant burger. The cheddar dripped down his chin, threatening to stain his shirt. But his father, quick on his feet, grabbed a napkin and wiped the sauce away. “Thanks,” Peter said, with a satisfied smile.

“Come here so I can help you,” Tony called, gently pulling Peter’s chair closer to his. As Peter devoured his meal enthusiastically, his fingers greasy with sauce, Tony alternated between eating his own burger and delicately wiping his son’s mouth. “Is it good?”

Peter nodded vigorously, his mouth so full he could barely speak.

Tony laughed, giving the boy a loving kiss on the cheek. “I can see that.”

After the four of them finished eating, Steve took the boys to the restroom to clean up while Tony took care of paying the bill. Ned, after drinking almost a liter of orange juice, went straight to the toilet, while Steve guided Peter to the sink to wash his face.

“Did you enjoy today?” Steve asked, smoothing Peter’s hair to fix the messy strands.

“I should be asking you that,” Peter replied with a playful smile.

“I could spend my birthday in a hole in the middle of the forest, and it would still be a great day just knowing you’re happy,” Steve said, watching Peter roll his eyes but with a bashful smile on his face.

Peter wasn’t sure when he fell asleep on the way back home. When he woke up, he was in his room, cuddled with his stuffed spider, and heard voices coming from outside. He got out of bed, stretched, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, trying to shake off the sleepiness. He noticed he was already dressed in comfortable pajamas, probably changed by his father.

With sleep finally fading, Peter followed the noise and found Ned, Tony, and his Uncle Rhodes sprawled on the couch, immersed in a frantic video game session.

“Attack from that side, Ted! Use your gun to kill the pig!” Tony shouted, excited.

“It’s a magic pig! Can only be killed with magic,” Ned explained, clicking furiously on the controller. “Mr. Rhodes picked the mage, so he can handle the pig.”

“Did you hear the kid, Rhodey?” Tony teased.

“Hey, dear,” Steve suddenly appeared, hugging Peter from behind and giving a gentle kiss on his head. “I was just about to wake you up.”

“Hi, Peter!” Ned exclaimed, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Can you believe I beat your dad twice in the car race?”

“I got distracted by a pesky fly,” Tony said defensively.

“Both times?” His uncle teased.

“It was a really- I KILLED IT!” Tony yelled, dropping the controller and getting up from the couch with his arms raised, before dramatically falling to his knees. “Finally.”

Rhodes rolled his eyes, got up from the couch, and went to Peter. “I’ve missed my favorite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew,” Peter replied with a smile, but gave in to a tight hug from his uncle.

“Do I get one too?” Peter heard and, turning around, found his Uncle Bucky leaning against the kitchen door, arms crossed in a relaxed posture. Peter laughed and ran to him, immediately being lifted and hugged tightly. “You’ve grown, squirt.”

“Actually, I’ve grown two centimeters since the last time we saw each other,” Peter commented, pleased to note his own growth.

“Wow, two centimeters? You’re big, kid,” Bucky said, masking the joke with an innocente smile. Steve gave him a light pat on the back.

“Can we finally eat the cake now that the sleepyhead is awake?” Tony asked, giving Peter a quick kiss before heading to the kitchen. “Not to brag or anything, but I do know how to pick out a cake very well,” he boasted, with a satisfied grin.

The cake was indeed irresistible: chocolate cake with vanilla cream filling and sliced strawberries, covered with a generous layer of bittersweet chocolate ganache and whole strawberries. Tony placed the candle on top and lit it, beginning to sing “Happy Birthday” as everyone joined in.

“Now make a wish!” Peter exclaimed, with a big smile on his face, his eyes shining with anticipation.

Steve looked at the cake, his thoughts wandering for a moment. “I don’t have anything to wish for,” he reflected silently. “I have everything I need right here, in this room.” With a serene smile, he closed his eyes and made his usual wish: that these happy and simple moments would never end. When he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by the smiling faces of his family, and a feeling of gratitude filled his heart.

Sometimes, Steve wondered if he should feel guilty for his happiness. Guilty for enjoying something so precious and taking that joy away from someone else. But, in moments like these, looking at his son’s face, he knew he shouldn’t. Peter was meant to be his son, and no matter the paths they had to walk, they were destined to be a family.

After cutting the cake—Peter, as expected, getting the first slice—and opening presents, Bucky and Rhodes left, and his parents sat on the porch, having a quiet conversation. Peter and Ned were in the backyard, setting up a post-apocalyptic camp.

“If we were to mention a fictional serial killer, maybe Hannibal would be a good choice,” Ned commented, throwing another stick onto the small makeshift fire.

“That would be amazing,” Peter agreed, lighting the fire with some paper. “And he kind of only becomes a cannibal because his sister was killed and he ate her in desperation, right?”

“Yes, I think that’s it,” Ned replied, thoughtfully.

“Maybe he was inspired by a real serial killer?” Peter suggested, frowning. “Worth researching later.”

Ned nodded, dragging his sleeping bag closer to Peter as the night’s chill slowly enveloped them. They lay side by side, still wrapped in the tranquility that the night and the stars offered.

“Do you like MJ?” Ned asked suddenly, breaking the silence abruptly. Peter almost choked, caught completely off guard by the question.

“What kind of question is that, Ned?” He murmured, visibly embarrassed.

“Oh, come on! It’s pretty obvious you like her, but like... do you want to date her?”

“Ned!” Peter interrupted, lowering his voice and looking around as if fearing the trees themselves were listening. “Speak quietly!”

Na uncomfortable moment of silence settled, but it was soon broken by Peter himself.

“I don’t know, man,” he admitted, his thoughts drifting back to that morning. “She’s so amazing, right? And... so beautiful.”

Ned chuckled. “You’re so in love!”

“Shut up,” Peter muttered, turning to the side to avoid Ned’s gaze, though he couldn’t help a slight smile. It was true, after all. He couldn’t deny it.

For a few minutes, they went back to stargazing, exchanging occasional comments about the vast universe above. Peter was about to share na idea he’d been mulling over: the universe, constantly expanding, meant that, technically, the stars were moving away from them. One day, he thought, looking up at the sky, perhaps all they would see would be the dark void, with no points of light to guide them. He opened his mouth to speak but, as he turned his face, noticed that Ned was already softly snoring beside him, lost in dreams.

Shortly after, Tony and Steve approached, carrying their own sleeping bags. Tony was grumbling softly about how it would surely ruin his back, while Steve just laughed at his stubbornness. Peter was starting to feel sleepy, but still felt like he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep.

“I can’t sleep,” Peter said, in a whiny tone, frustrated by having had a nap earlier.

Steve smiled lightly, pulling him closer and starting to stroke his hair. The gentle touch on Peter’s hair immediately calmed him, his eyes beginning to close, though he fought against the sleep starting to take over.

“Look at the stars, dear,” Steve whispered, as his fingers traced gentle circles on Peter’s scalp. Little by little, Peter gave in, his fingers unconsciously reaching for his earlobe, a childhood habit he had.

Before finally succumbing to exhaustion, Peter murmured one last time, “Happy birthday, Dad.”

Steve felt his chest fill with warmth, a proud smile spreading across his lips. He continued to stroke Peter for a while longer, watching the boy sleep peacefully in his arms. Peter’s gentle breathing filled the air between them, and Steve couldn’t help but gently touch Peter’s face—the soft skin, the still youthful features he so adored.

He looked up at the sky for a moment, grateful for everything he had. The family he had built, the love they shared. The feeling that, somehow, he had managed to fool the universe and create a perfect life.

Notes:

Hi guys, did you miss an update as much as I did? I'm sorry for the absurd delay in updating, I was a little busy with some projects and work, but I'm back!

Please, if you liked this chapter, leave a comment below, it helps a lot to stay motivated to continue this story ❤️❤️ just a "ok" is enough haha

See you soon with little Peter with me 💞

Chapter 5

Before

Once, Peter was allowed to play at Thomas Pattinson’s house. The building’s playground had been closed for cleaning, so this was a rare and exciting opportunity. Thomas’s mother was kind but very strict, and Peter soon realized there were a series of tasks that needed to be done at the house. Thomas, being a responsible boy, had a clear and organized list. The list went like this:

1: Do your homework.

2: Put the toys in the chest after playing.

3: Organize the shoes on the shelf whenever you use one.

4: Feed Buddy.

Buddy was Thomas’s goldfish, and Peter learned there was a very specific rule about it: only three pellets of food a day. If you put more, little Buddy might die.

Steve and Tony hadn’t asked him to do any tasks in the months they had spent together, but one thing was certain: they had many rules. Peter, however, was excited about the idea of having his own responsibilities, like a big boy. When he finished writing his sheet with all his rules, he surrounded it with colorful hearts and stars, drawn with crayons. He felt proud of the result.

With the sheet in hand, Peter ran excitedly down the hall toward the kitchen. He wanted to hang it on the fridge, just like Steve did with shopping lists. But before he could cross the door, strong hands lifted him off the ground, stopping his run. He let out a cry of surprise, not understanding what was happening.

“May I know what all this running is about?” Tony asked with a good-humored smile. Peter immediately wrapped his legs and arms around the older man, seeking safety.

“I finished my list and I want to stick it on the fridge,” he explained, his eyes shining with excitement as he extended the sheet for Tony to see.

“Your list, huh?” Tony murmured, squinting to try to decipher the mix of letters and drawings on the paper. He made an effort not to laugh, pretending to grimace in pain. “Oh, what a headache! Can you read it to me, dear? I don’t want to strain my eyes.”

Peter immediately nodded, concern appearing on his little face. He leaned over and left a soft kiss on Tony’s forehead, like they did when he was feeling unwell. "Do you want me to speak softly?” he whispered, in a worried tone.

Tony’s heart tightened with affection at that moment. He held Peter a little tighter in his arms, as if he never wanted to let go. There was something comforting and pure in that caring gesture, and Tony realized he would never get tired of it. He wanted more and more of that innocent love.

“No need, dear.”

Peter nodded again, his excitement returning full force. He dramatically cleared his throat, preparing for the moment, and began to read aloud:>

Peter’s Rules List:

1: Can’t call Daddy Steve and Daddy Tony by their names.

2: Can’t interrupt Daddy Steve’s lessons.

3: Can’t play with the phone.

4: Can’t go out alone.

5: Can’t talk about Mommy.

When he finished, Peter looked at Tony with an expression of pure excitement, expecting to see surprise and admiration on his face, the proof that now he too had grown-up responsibilities. But instead, he found Tony with a thoughtful expression, a distant look.

“Didn’t you like it?” Peter asked, hesitant, his confidence beginning to waver.

“It’s not that, baby,” Tony explained gently, trying to find the right words. “We didn’t forbid you from ‘talking about Mommy,’ we forbade making up stories, remember?”

Peter almost rolled his eyes, frustrated. This again. He was sure Mommy existed; she wasn’t a made-up story, but Tony and Steve insisted she was. Peter didn’t know if it was because of the bad spies, if they had forgotten about Mommy, or for some other mysterious reason. And he was tired of arguing about it because it always ended the same way: Peter throwing a tantrum and ending up in time-out in the corner. And he didn’t want to be punished today. So, he decided he would make a grown-up decision and simply ignore the matter.

“How about we change this part before putting it on the fridge?” Tony suggested, but Peter knew it was more of an order in disguise. Even so, he nodded, eager to hang his list on the fridge as soon as possible. He slipped from Tony’s arms and ran towards his room to get his crayons.

“No running,” Tony warned, but it was already too late.

When he returned, Tony was sitting at the counter, waiting. Peter climbed onto his lap to get comfortable. He took the crayon and, very carefully, crossed out the part that needed to be corrected.

“Remember Daddy Steve said that whenever you write your name, you should write it complete?” Tony asked, pointing to the beginning of the sheet. “What’s your name?”

“Peter Stark Rogers,” he replied promptly, picking up the blue crayon to add the missing words. He wrote carefully, his tongue sticking out slightly, concentrating on the task. When he finished, he ran his hand over the sheet to remove any imaginary dust, lifting it afterward to get a better view.

Peter Stark Rogers’s Rules List:

1: Can’t call Daddy Steve and Daddy Tony by their names.

2: Can’t interrupt Daddy Steve’s lessons.

3: Can’t play with the phone.

4: Can’t go out alone

5: Can’t talk about Mommy make up stories.

Satisfied with the new version, Peter smiled. He noticed Tony was satisfied too when he accompanied him to the fridge and helped him hang his list. it stayed there, next to his drawings and Steve’s shopping list. Peter watched for a few seconds, his chest puffing with pride, before declaring:

“That means I’m a big boy now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony pretended to be surprised. “What a shame, I was thinking about playing outside and filling the pool, but it’s too small for an adult and a big boy.” Tony made a deliberately disappointed face, and Peter hurried to intervene.

“No, Daddy, I’m just a little big. I can still stay in the pool with you.” He explained, the excitement already growing. “Come on, please!”

Tony let a smile escape, and Peter knew he had won. What he didn’t know, however, was that the possibility of not getting something from Tony or Steve was practically nil. If Peter asked for a severed head on a crystal plate, they would probably serve it with gusto.

“Let’s change clothes then,” Tony said, taking Peter’s hand and leading him to the room to look for a beach swimsuit. The floor was covered with sheets of paper and colored pencils scattered everywhere, and Tony had to be careful not to step on anything accidentally.

“Do you prefer the red swimsuit or the one with penguins?” He asked, showing the two options to Peter, who was silent for a moment, pondering his choice seriously.

“The one with penguins,” he finally decided, with a determined expression.

“Good choice,” Tony agreed with a smile.

Peter took off his shorts and underwear by himself but needed Tony’s help to take off his shirt and then put on the swimsuit. Tony took the opportunity to apply sunscreen all over Peter’s body and face, leaving him with a thin white layer that made him laugh.

“I look like a ghost!”

“The cutest little ghost I’ve ever seen.”

Peter blushed, feeling his cheeks warm up. He remembered to say “Thank you, Daddy” before leaving his closet to grab all the things needed for a day at the pool. He grabbed his kitchen kit, composed of little pans, plates, cups, and cutlery, as well as some plastic food items like fruits and vegetables, which he kept in a small basket. He also took his ball, his swimming goggles, and Karen, but Tony stopped him:

“If you take Karen to the pool, you won’t be able to sleep with her tonight because she’ll be too wet.”

Peter frowned, indignant. “But you’ll dry her.”

“Her body doesn’t dry like ours, kid. It accumulates water and needs to rest until all the water drains out,” Tony explained. “I don’t think she wants to go in the water. I think she really wants to sunbathe to make her fur shinier.”

Peter looked at his stuffed spider, thinking. Indeed, her fur was a little dull, maybe needing some hydration, like Steve did to his hair every now and then. But since she couldn’t get wet, maybe a little sun would be helpful. He nodded then, snapping out of his stupor to look at his dad with the sparkle back in his eyes.

“Okay, she’ll want to stay on the loungers then.”

“Perfect. Got everything you need?”

Peter nodded.

“Good, then let’s go!”

Peter let out a loud sound of excitement and followed his dad toward the yard. He carefully dropped his toys on the grass to place Karen on the chair, then turned to his dad, who was turning on the hose to fill Peter’s small pool, all decorated with colorful fish and octopuses.

When the pool was finally full to the brim with crystal-clear water, Peter almost jumped into it with excitement. Tony took him to the table next to the grill to help him put on the swimming goggles, smiling at his son’s happiness.

“Now we just need to put on the floaties, and you can go,” Tony announced, grabbing the floaties on the table and fitting them onto the boy’s short arms.

It’s a kiddie pool, so any kind of float isn’t really necessary. But with Peter’s joy in playing with water outside, Tony was thinking of building a real pool in the backyard, so he wanted to fix in Peter’s mind that you only go into pools with floaties. Any precaution is too little with Peter, and he doesn’t think he could bear living without his son, not now that he’s finally had a taste of having him.

“Can I go now, Daddy?”

“Go ahead, little fish.”

Tony had to restrain himself from asking Peter once more not to run. He wondered if he would end up becoming that father obsessed with his son’s safety, who would become overly protective. Tony feared that, by trying to protect Peter from all possible dangers, he would end up preventing him from experiencing and growing. There was a part of him that wanted to keep Peter always close, in his lap, where he felt safe and loved. But, as difficult as it was, Tony tried not to let this impulse take over, knowing that what mattered was that Peter was happy and adjusting well to his new life with them.

“Aren’t you coming?” Peter asked, a little out of breath from jumping and playing in the water.

“Give me a second!” Tony said, taking off his shirt and staying only in his shorts. He put a cap on his head to protect himself from the intense sun, grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator to keep them hydrated, and headed toward Peter. The pool was obviously too small for both of them together, so he sat on the ground next to the boy and contented himself with the hose.

“I’m making a vegetable soup,” Peter explained, stirring his little pot full of water. He put two plastic strawberries inside and pretended to taste it. He made a face: “It needs salt.”

“What should I do, Chef?” Tony joined the game. Peter thought for a moment, then grabbed two cups from the bottom of the pool and extended them to Tony.

“You can make our juices.”

Tony nodded in understanding, pretending seriousness, and began to prepare the juice. He took a plastic orange and some grapes, put them in a little pot with water, and pretended to blend them like in a blender. Then, he poured the bottled water he had brought earlier into the two cups. He handed one to Peter, who drank it all immediately.

“What’s your score?”

“10!”

“Wow, thank you very much, kid.”

“Now try my soup,” Peter demanded, extending the spoon toward Tony’s mouth. “It has cabbage, potato, carrot, and spinach to make you strong, Daddy.”

“Wow, this is the best soup I’ve ever had in my entire life!”

Peter laughed, tasting it himself and letting out a sound of appreciation.

“Let’s play that we’re mermaids now,” Peter suggested, taking all the toys out of the pool to make room. “I want a blue tail!”

“I think I’ll want a red tail, then.”

“Now we need to choose our mermaid powers,” Peter explained. “Let me think…”

“Can I choose the power to be the most powerful?” Tony asked, amused by the indignant expression Peter shot at him.

“That’s not fair, you can’t.”

“Alright, then I want to have the power to take away my opponent’s powers.”

Peter furrowed his brows at him, pouting. “No, Daddy, you have to choose a normal power, like flying or making fire.”

“But flying or making fire doesn’t make sense if I live in the water.”

Peter rolled his eyes, and Tony held back a laugh. “Your power will be seeing the future,” he announced, finally. “Mine will be… having super speed!”

“Well, that means I win,” Tony commented. “Because if I know the future, then I know what you’re going to do and I’ll be able to stop it.”

Peter paused and thought for a few seconds, then smiled satisfied at Tony and said, “But what if I change my mind really fast? I run and do something else before you think. What if I’m so fast that you don’t even have time to use your power?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Hmm, interesting point, but if I see the future, I see all the possibilities, right? So I can predict any trick you try, even if you change your mind at the last second.”

Peter thought some more, with a serious expression. “But what if I run so much that you can’t see all the futures in time? What if I do so many things at the same time that you get confused?”

Tony smiled. “Then I guess we can call it a draw, right?”

Peter nodded, satisfied.

Lunchtime quickly approached, and they found Steve in the kitchen preparing something that definitely smelled good. Peter untangled himself from Tony’s lap to get closer to Steve, raising his arms to be picked up. Steve did so without hesitation, sniffing the boy’s neck in a gesture of affection that made him giggle.

“Were you having fun?” Steve asked, dividing his attention between his son and the bubbling sauce pan.

“We were mermaids with superpowers! I was the king of the seas, and Daddy was my knight.”

“Wow, I’ve always wanted to be a mermaid with superpowers.” Steve joined in the game.

“You can work as my cook, Daddy,” Peter suggested innocently.

Steve cast an amused glance at his husband, who was already hiding a laugh. “Would you give me that honor, dear?”

Peter nodded, looking curiously at the pan on the stove. “What are you making?”

“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Steve replied, and Tony let out a sound of appreciation.

“This calls for a glass of wine,” Tony said to Steve, hugging him from behind.

The thought that he was holding his whole world in his arms crossed his mind momentarily, and he liked it.

“And grape juice for me,” Peter added, running his hand distractedly over Tony’s face simply because he liked the feeling of his beard pricking.

“Good choice, that’s my boy.” Tony murmured, smiling.

“Go help your dad set the table while I finish here,” Steve asked, putting him down on the floor.

Peter made a point of arranging everything very carefully, plates on top of cloth napkins, cutlery on the side, and glasses in front. He didn’t have a glass, but he had a little cup with a straw with Darth Vader’s picture on it that he loved.

Steve put a portion of spaghetti Bolognese for each of them, along with a freshly baked roll. Tony poured wine for the two of them and then filled Peter’s cup with pure grape juice.

“Daddy, can you feed me?” Peter asked lazily, rubbing his eyes, already slightly red from playing in the water and from sleepiness. Steve picked him up from his chair and sat him on his lap, adjusting the towel on his shoulders and pulling his plate closer.

“Next week I’ll need to work in person because it’s the students’ final presentation,” Peter heard Steve say while patiently waiting for him to finish cutting his spaghetti. “Are you free to stay with Peter, right?”

“Anything that comes up I can postpone,” Tony assured. Peter watched amused as he took his wine in the same fancy way he had seen people do in the movies.

Daddy started feeding him, and he got distracted from the conversation that followed. As his belly filled, sleepiness became more present until he could feel his eyes closing on their own.

“Are you full already?” Daddy asked.

Peter murmured a simple “Uh-huh,” resting his head on Daddy’s chest and ready to take his nap right there, but the words “dessert” and “ice cream” woke him up immediately.

“What?” He asked, more alert. This made the two adults at the table laugh, and Peter watched Tony get up and go to the freezer. The boy quickly sat up straight when he saw Tony grab a strawberry popsicle. He unwrapped it and handed it to Peter.

“Eat it outside so it doesn’t drip all over the house,” Tony said, smiling.

Peter ran to the backyard, licking his popsicle with enthusiasm. He sat next to his spider, enjoying the warm sun on his body while savoring the sweet and slightly sour taste of the ice cream. He was so focused on it that he almost missed the white blur jumping from the trees. Almost. His attention shifted entirely to the little bunny on the grass, too busy eating to notice Peter approaching slowly. Both were startled when Peter accidentally stepped on a branch, scaring the bunny back into the trees.

With a start, Peter ran after the rabbit, wanting very much to befriend and pet it. The little animal was fast, but Peter tried hard not to lose sight of it. He didn’t know how much time passed in this chase until the bunny finally got the upper hand and disappeared into the vegetation.

He tried not to feel sad; there would surely be other chances to play with the bunny, and he prepared to go back home. But when he looked around, he realized he couldn't see his house and didn’t know which way to go.

His heart suddenly sped up, remembering the fourth rule on his list: Do not go out alone. He broke that rule, and now he was lost, alone, and scared. He started calling out for Steve and Tony, but neither of them answered, and he wondered if they would leave him there for disobeying.

The popsicle melted In his hand as time passed, leaving a sticky trail that made dirt and leaves stick to it. Peter sat on a piece of log, exhausted from walking, yelling, and crying. He buried his face between his knees, closing his eyes, wishing that when he opened them, he would be with Steve and Tony again. But when he opened them again, all he saw were trees and more trees.

More time passed, with the sky starting to turn orange, and Peter decided to walk a little more. He passed a very pretty bird and decided he would paint it when he got back home. A cold breeze made Peter’s hair stand on end, and he clutched the towel around himself more tightly. Lost in thought, he didn’t see the small hole in front of him until it was too late and ended up falling into it.

It wasn’t a deep hole, nor very wide, just enough to leave some scratches. Peter managed to get out of it easily and watched with teary eyes as blood trickled from the wound on his knee. Tired, Peter let himself fall and started crying.

He was abruptly Interrupted when he saw Tony running toward him, eyes wide and sweat dripping down his temple. He looked desperate, and Peter didn’t have time to whisper more than “daddy” before being grabbed by him.

“What were you thinking, Peter?” Tony murmured, his voice heavy with worry and a hint of restrained anger as he examined his son for serious injuries. His eyes were filled with tears, and he kissed Peter’s face with a desperate intensity, wiping his tears.

“I’m sorry,” Peter managed to say between sobs. He wrapped his arms around Tony’s neck, his fear visible in every tremor. “I’m sorry, daddy,” he repeated, his voice shaky and full of regret. The fear of being left alone made him cling even tighter.

“It’s okay,” Tony whispered, trying to calm himself down so he could calm his son. He hugged him tightly, rocking him slightly to make him stop crying. “Shh, take a deep breath, daddy’s here now.”

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

“I know, baby, I know.” Tony tried to stay calm, but the guilt and fear still hung over him. The thought of Peter being hurt, alone, and scared made his heart ache.

Tony took the phone out of his pocket and dialed Steve’s number, who answered quickly, with a frantic tone, “Did you find him?!”

“He’s with me, Steve, we’re coming back,” Tony tried to speak calmly, but his voice betrayed his own agitation.

“Oh my God, is he okay?”

“Calm down, dear, he’s fine. Just a scraped knee. Nothing serious,” Tony tried to ease the tension, though he knew the scare had been great for both of them.

“Where was he, Tony?”

Tony swallowed hard, the weight of guilt almost suffocating him. “Very close to the cliff.”

“Jesus, I told you, Tony, I told you we should have put up fences! You never listen to me!”

Tony knew Steve was speaking without thinking, driven by fear and worry. The words were harsh, but he understood his husband’s desperation. However, the guilt he felt for allowing Peter to be in danger was crushing. If Peter had walked a few more meters and had fallen, Tony knew he would never forgive himself.

“We’re almost there, dear,” Tony said, more to himself than to Peter. He put the phone back in his pocket, adjusting Peter in his arms. The boy was calmer now, the sobs diminishing as Tony rocked him gently. With each quiet sigh from Peter, Tony felt a small relief, though the shadow of guilt still loomed over him.

Tony found Steve waiting for them in the yard, his face a mixture of relief and anguish. As soon as Tony arrived, Steve quickly pulled Peter into his arms, his eyes teary.

“My baby,” Steve whispered, tears running freely as he caressed Peter’s little face. “Don’t ever do that again, please.”

Peter, embarrassed and still haunted by fear, hid his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. Feeling safe now, he let out a sigh of relief. The feeling of finally being home was comforting.

Steve took him to the bathroom, where he removed his swimsuit and turned on the shower. Peter, clinging to Steve, refused to let go, so Steve stepped into the water with him. Peter heard Steve whisper in his ear, in a tone of concern, “Don’t do that to us again.”

Steve carefully washed Peter’s wound and all the dirt from the forest. When he finished, he handed Peter to Tony, who was waiting with a relieved look. Steve went to the bedroom to change clothes. Tony quickly and gently dried Peter before placing him on the bathroom counter. He grabbed some ointment and a band-aid to take care of the injury.

“I fell,” Peter explained, feeling his eyes burn with tears. “I won’t do that again, daddy, I promise.”

Tony nodded, kissing Peter’s forehead before starting to dress him in the most comfortable pajamas, although it wasn’t his favorite. The cotton fabric warmed Peter and made him feel even sleepier.

Instead of taking him to the bedroom, Tony led him to the living room, leaving Peter confused. Tony took his chair and placed it in the corner of the room, sitting Peter in It, facing the wall.

“You’re going to sit there and think about what you did wrong,” Tony explained, standing up to leave. Peter, desperate, stood up as well to follow him.

“No, daddy,” he pleaded, not wanting to be left alone. Steve entered the room, and Peter took the chance to run to him, but Tony stopped him halfway.

“You’re going to sit down and think about your actions, Peter!”

“NO!” Peter shouted, frustrated. Tony didn’t want to hear it and sat him back down, leaving no room for protest. Peter stood up again, grabbed the chair, and threw it as far as he could. “NO, I WON’T STAY IN TIME OUT!”

He was exhausted, his wound throbbed, and his eyes burned with sleep. All he wanted was to lie down with his dad and sleep, but he felt they were being unfair to him. He had already apologized and promised not to go into the forest again. The exhaustion and frustration made the punishment even harder to bear.

“Peter,” Steve uttered, in a warning tone, but Peter ignored him, frowning at them in defiance.

“I don’t want to!”

“All right,” Tony said at last. Peter looked at him in surprise, watching him approach and pick him up. He tried to snuggle into him, but daddy didn’t allow it, holding him by the armpits until he sat on the couch, where he turned Peter to lie over his knees.

“Daddy?” he murmured, confused, when he felt him lower his pants and underwear to his thighs. Steve appeared in front of him, crouching down to be at the same height, and carefully took Peter’s hand in his.

“Peter,” Tony began, his voice deep and tense. “You went into the forest alone, knowing you couldn’t. You made us worried, afraid that we’d never find you again.”

The boy started crying again.

“And now, you’re behaving badly, throwing things and yelling at us. Is this right, Peter?”

He shook his head, but Steve murmured softly, “Use your words.”

“No, daddy.”

“I love you, Peter, and I’m very upset with your actions,” Tony said, and Peter felt his heart sink at the words. He hated disappointing Tony or Steve. “Since you refused to stay in the corner, you will get five spankings for being a bad boy, understood?”

The concept of spankings left Peter paralyzed.

“Did you understand, Peter?” Tony repeated. The boy nodded, still very confused and overwhelmed.

“Then we’ll begin.”

The first smack was more frightening than painful, and Peter stared at Steve with wide eyes. When the reality of what was happening began to settle in, he tried to break free from Tony, but the man held him firmly. Another smack landed on his unprotected bottom, causing a burning sting. Peter screamed, trying to bite Tony’s thigh in a desperate act, but Steve held his face.

“NO, STOP!” he pleaded, trying to escape, but Tony continued.

When the fifth spanking was given, Peter was in tears, snot running down his face. Steve lifted him, adjusting his pants and cradling him against himself.

“Are you going to do this again?” Tony asked, and Peter thought angrily if he couldn’t just disappear from there and let him sleep in peace.

He shook his head, hoping it would all be over soon.

“Look at me.”

With an exhausted sigh, Peter turned to his father.

“I love you,” Tony said, lightly brushing Peter’s face to wipe away the remaining tears.

“You hit me,” Peter accused, his voice almost gone as he tried to process what had happened.

“Sometimes, parents need to do this,” Tony replied, trying to convey that his actions were driven by a desire to teach and protect.

Peter wanted to retort, wanted to say that Tony wasn’t even his real dad. But the exhaustion and confusion of the day made him give In to sleep. Too tired to defend himself, he just clung to Steve’s shirt more tightly, seeking the security he had.

Chapter 6

After

Happy was driving through the quiet streets, and Peter was doing his best not to seem nervous. Which was hard, considering MJ was right there, sitting next to him, tapping her fingers on the car door to the rhythm of a song only she could hear.

When he suggested they work together at his house, he kind of expected a polite "no." Maybe even some excuse. But to his surprise, her father simply replied:

"Okay. Text me when you get there."

No interrogation. No questions like "Who else is going to be there?" or "Are his parents going to be home?" Just a nod, and that was it.

That left him feeling a bit uneasy. His parents wouldn’t let him leave, not even to go to the pool, without one of them around.

"You’re strangely quiet," MJ commented, not taking her eyes off the window.

Peter cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Am I?"

"Uh-huh. You look like you’re about to have an internal meltdown. Is it the traffic? Do you hate traffic? Or do I have a leaf stuck in my hair?"

She turned her face slightly toward him, raising an eyebrow. Peter, instinctively, looked at her hair, as if he were really checking for leaves.

MJ laughed. "Dude... I was just kidding."

He closed his eyes for a second, feeling his face heat up. "I knew that."

"You knew, huh?"

"I knew!"

She laughed again, resting her elbow on the window and her face in her hand. "Okay, so... what’s going on? You seem a little distracted."

Peter hesitated: "I just... I thought it was funny how your dad let you come over so easily."

"Why? He trusts me."

Peter fell silent for a moment. He’d never thought about it that way.

"My parents aren’t like that," he admitted.

MJ looked at him with interest. "Really? They’re the type to install trackers on your phone?"

He opened his mouth to deny it but then remembered that, actually, yes, they did exactly that.

"Maybe."

She let out a low whistle. "Wow. Super overprotective. Do they think you’re going to run away or something?"

Peter let out a nervous laugh. "I don’t know..."

She stared at him for a second, as if expecting him to elaborate. When she realized he wasn’t going to, she just shrugged.

Peter smiled slightly. "And your dad? Doesn’t he worry?"

"He worries. He just doesn’t act like the world’s going to end if I leave the house for two hours."

"Must be nice," he murmured, without realizing he said it out loud.

MJ glanced at him quickly and smiled faintly. "Maybe one day your parents will realize you know how to take care of yourself."

He let out a nasally laugh. "I doubt it."

"Just start taking small steps," she suggested. "Like... running away from home."

Peter almost choked on his own saliva. "What?"

"Just kidding."

"That didn’t sound like a joke!"

"It was. Sort of," MJ said, laughing. "But seriously, have you tried talking to them? Telling them you want more space?"

Peter shrugged. "I wouldn’t even know where to start."

"Well, if you need help, I could pretend to be your lawyer and make a convincing case," she offered, crossing her arms with a dramatic look. "'Dear parents of Peter, I am writing to present concrete evidence that Peter Parker can cross the street alone without imminent risk of death.'"

He laughed, shaking his head. "You’re terrible."

"I prefer 'persuasive.'"

The car turned the last corner, and Peter recognized his house approaching. He felt a strange weight in his chest as he realized the drive was almost over.

MJ looked at the house and let out a whistle. "Not bad. I bet your fridge looks like a Starbucks branch."

"Confirmed."

"Great. So do me a favor and pretend I came here just for the work and not for the coffee."

Peter smiled. "I can’t promise anything."

The garden was vast and well-maintained, with perfectly pruned trees and a sparkling pool at the back of the house, which was way too big for anyone to just call it "home." The wide windows reflected the sun, and an open garage displayed a variety of cars that looked like they had just come out of a luxury exhibition.

"Okay... Now I really want to know what your parents do for a living," MJ said, raising an eyebrow.

Peter laughed, a little embarrassed. "Let’s just say my dad likes to collect things."

"Like luxury cars?"

"Like everything," he corrected, laughing.

He seemed relaxed, but MJ noticed he was tightening the straps of his backpack a little. She wondered if he was nervous or just excited to have her there. When the car stopped, Peter hurriedly unbuckled his seatbelt, hesitating for a moment before taking her hand and pulling her out of the car. The gesture was so spontaneous that MJ let out a surprised little laugh. But before she could tease him about it, she felt a gaze on her.

At the doorframe, a man was watching the two of them. He stood with a stiff posture and his arms crossed, as if he were studying the scene more closely than he should.

MJ slowed her pace, instinctively.

Then, the man smiled.

"You must be MJ."

His voice was calm, even polite, but there was something in the way his eyes analyzed every detail. He didn’t just seem curious. He seemed... evaluative.

Peter smiled, oblivious to the tension. "This is my dad, Steve."

Peter walked toward his dad, and Steve immediately placed a hand on the boy’s neck, his fingers running through his hair in a familiar, almost automatic gesture. Peter leaned into the touch for a moment, like a content cat, a natural smile forming on his face.

Steve observed this with a gleam in his eyes, but when he turned his attention to MJ, the lightness disappeared. "Nice to meet you," he said, still looking MJ up and down.

"The pleasure’s mine," MJ replied, unsure of what else to say.

Steve kept the smile, but the bitter taste was already spreading in his mouth. The girl seemed harmless — polite, no signs of being a problem. But that didn’t matter. A single look was enough for him to hate her. Her messy hair, the paint stains on her fingers, the way she held Peter’s hand like she had the right to. Like Peter belonged to her.

"Good day at school?" he asked, squeezing Peter’s shoulder firmly, his cold gaze fixed on the girl.

Peter blinked, as though he’d been pulled from another universe. "Huh?"

Steve smiled, a forced smile. "I think you need to eat something, huh?"

Peter nodded quickly and looked at MJ. "Can we eat before we start?"

Steve didn’t wait for her answer. He just turned on his heels and headed to the kitchen, knowing Peter would follow — just like he always did.

The kitchen was spacious, modern, and perfectly organized — which somehow only heightened the feeling that she was stepping into controlled territory. Steve took bread and deli meats from the cupboard, preparing everything with methodical precision.

"Where’s dad?" Peter asked, looking around as if he expected Tony to show up at any moment.

"He went to a meeting. He’ll be back tomorrow."

Peter made a frustrated sound. "I wish she could meet him."

Steve paused for a moment before continuing, "Oh yeah?" he asked, feeling his fingers tighten on the knife. "Why?"

"I think she’d like to see the things he does in the lab."

MJ smiled. "I hope to meet him soon, then."

Steve didn’t answer immediately. He just stacked the ingredients on the bread with a calculated silence before finally saying:

"I’m sure he’ll want to meet you too."

She couldn’t tell if that was a neutral comment or a warning.

Peter, on the other hand, seemed completely unaware of the tension in the air. "Oh, and he’s a teacher! History," he added, pointing at Steve.

"Oh, really?" she asked, trying to break the awkward atmosphere. "University?"

Steve nodded without looking at her. "At ASU."

"Cool," she said, just to fill the silence.

The silence between them stretched on for a few more seconds until Steve handed the sandwich plate to MJ and, with a sigh, began cutting Peter’s. Star-shaped, as always.

"You really cut his sandwich like that?" MJ asked with a short laugh, though Steve couldn’t tell if it was out of amusement or surprise.

"This is how he likes it," Steve said, making it clear he wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation.

Peter, on the other side of the counter, rushed to intervene, his face immediately flushing. "No, no! He’s just kidding. I, uh, don’t eat it like that... He just does that sometimes."

Peter’s tone made Steve look at him, and the boy’s expression was embarrassed, but there was also a sincerity in his eyes that made Steve’s heart tighten. "We’re going to study now, okay?" Peter said quickly, avoiding eye contact.

Steve stood in the kitchen, still holding the knife he’d used to cut the sandwich. He watched Peter and MJ disappear down the hall without even looking back.

He looked down at the counter, where the leftover bread and deli meats were still scattered. A short laugh escaped his lips, but there was no humor in it. He blinked quickly, trying to dispel the burning in his eyes.

Peter had always eaten his sandwiches like this. Always. It was one of those little eccentricities Steve had never questioned because it was part of what made Peter special. It was part of him. And every time Steve picked up the knife to shape the slices, he felt a secret satisfaction—a reminder that Peter still needed him.

But now…

Steve took a deep breath, squeezing his fingers around the edge of the counter. What changed? What made Peter look at that sandwich and decide he didn’t want it anymore?

MJ.

The answer came bitterly, slithering through his mind like poison. Some girl, a stranger, and suddenly, everything he had built was crumbling.

What else would Peter start rejecting?

Steve narrowed his eyes, the pain condensing into a cold, sharp thought: he should never have let Peter leave home. He should never have given him so much freedom. This had to end.

Peter didn’t need school, friends, or distractions. He only needed them. He only needed him.

Steve grabbed two glasses and filled them with apple juice before heading down the hall. As he approached the room, muffled voices and soft laughter reached him. He paused at the slightly open door, furrowing his brow.

Inside, Peter and MJ were sprawled on the bed, laptops on their laps, sharing information enthusiastically. They were immersed in each other, absorbed in that strange, distant world Steve didn’t belong to.

"You didn’t bring drinks," he commented casually, walking into the room and setting the glasses down on the nightstand.

Peter muttered a distracted "Thanks, Dad," without even looking up from the screen. MJ also mumbled something similar, but neither of them took their attention away.

Steve lingered, pretending to be busy. He adjusted a pillow, ran his hand over one of the shelves, his fingers sliding through the dust accumulated on Peter’s old toys.

He should leave. Go back to the office, get on with his day. But the thought of leaving them there, alone, sharing secrets and laughs, bothered him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

"Wow..." Peter murmured, his voice heavy with dismay. "The last victim was six years old."

MJ frowned. "This says he did to the victims the same thing the nanny did to him when he was a kid. Do you think he saw the nanny when he looked at them?"

Peter went silent for a moment, processing the information. "Maybe. Makes sense."

Steve felt his stomach churn.

This is what happened when Peter slipped out of his control. This is what happened when he allowed the kid to be exposed to the world.

Peter shouldn’t be reading this. He shouldn’t be diving into these stories, this horror. He was too good for that. Too pure.

And Steve wanted to protect him.

He wanted to cross the room, pull him into his chest, whisper that everything would be okay. He wanted to pull him away from these conversations, from these dark thoughts.

But he didn’t move.

Because, deep down, he knew he couldn’t bear to see Peter pull away. He couldn’t bear another rejection.

Steve turned slowly and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

As he walked down the hall, he heard a soft sigh from MJ, as if his exit had lifted an invisible weight from the room.

He clenched his fists.

As soon as Steve left the room, MJ let out a discreet sigh, as if she could finally relax completely now. She adjusted herself on the bed, swinging her feet in the air before turning her gaze back to Peter.

"Okay," she said, pulling the notebook closer. "We need to organize this properly. You can make the slides with the photos and the important details—dates, locations—and I'll write the presentation script. What do you think?"

Peter nodded in agreement, already opening a new document to begin. They spent the next few minutes in silence, broken only by the sound of typing and mouse clicks. Every now and then, Peter could feel his father's eyes on him—Steve passing through the hallway, always attentive, as if he wanted to make sure he was still in control of the situation.

Peter knew what that meant. He knew Steve didn’t like him getting involved in this kind of research. But at the same time, he felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest as he read the details of the case.

"I don’t understand how anyone can do that to a child." Peter’s voice came out lower than he intended, weighed down with a heaviness he couldn’t name.

MJ stopped typing and looked at him, her face softening.

"It’s sick," she agreed, turning her gaze to the screen. The photo of a smiling little girl, now just a name on a list of victims, stared back at them. "But kids are easy targets. They trust adults. And no one expects something horrible to happen until it's too late."

Peter nodded, a lump forming in his throat. The topic weighed heavily in the air, and MJ seemed to notice, because she quickly tried to change the tone of the conversation.

"There’s this university blog I follow, it’s pretty cool," she said, pulling Peter’s notebook into the middle of them. "They talk about cases like this, old and new. I really like the theories they come up with."

She leaned in closer, not realizing that, by doing so, her shoulder brushed against his. The warmth of the contact made Peter a little nervous, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he waited to see if MJ would notice and pull back first.

She didn’t pull back.

"Look, they posted something new!" Her eyes lit up as she scrolled down the page.

 

New Information on the Malina Sanchez Case!

"Malina Sanchez was kidnapped at the age of 10 in Florida. Seven long years have passed since her disappearance, but without success in finding her. Now, however, the case may be one step closer to being solved!"

"In the forest north of Florida, about 176 km from where Malina was taken, police found some clothing that matches the description of what she was wearing the day of the kidnapping."

"The investigation continues, and all we can do is wait. What we know so far is that there were no traces of blood on the clothes or the surrounding area, so we can rule out the possibility of a sexual crime."

 

MJ furrowed her brow as she read the news. "That’s kinda strange, right? They found her clothes, but no sign of violence?"

Peter looked at the screen, feeling an increasing discomfort. Seven years. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be missing for so long. What was left of someone after all that time?

"Do you think she’s still alive?"

MJ paused for a moment, her eyes wandering across the screen. When she replied, her voice was a little softer.

"Honestly? I hope she isn’t."

Peter blinked, surprised. "What?"

She sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "If someone kept her alive for seven years... it wasn’t for a good reason, right?"

The silence between them grew heavy. Peter didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t avoid it. There was a cruel truth in her answer.

MJ broke the tension with a chuckle as she scrolled to another article.

"Hey, doesn’t this guy look like Justin Bieber?"

Peter blinked, snapping back to the present. He looked at the screen and saw the photo of a missing teenager who did resemble the singer.

"Oh, and this girl?" MJ laughed, pointing at another image. "She’s like a mix between Marilyn Monroe and Kristen Stewart."

They spent a few minutes like that, laughing at the coincidences and comparing photos. But as MJ got distracted, Peter found himself more interested in the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled than in what they were actually saying. The way she tilted her head, the carefree way her hair fell over her shoulders—

"Wait..." Her voice brought him back. "This one looks like you!"

Peter frowned and shifted his gaze to the screen. The smile disappeared from his face.

The photo was of a little boy, around four or five years old. Messy brown hair. Big, expressive eyes. A resemblance so strong it made Peter’s stomach churn.

And then he saw the name beneath the photo.

Peter Parker.

His chest tightened. It was an absurd coincidence. He let out a nervous laugh, trying to process it.

"Same puppy eyes," MJ joked, not realizing the impact it had on him.

Peter couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. He read the name again. And again. A strange shiver ran up his spine, as if he had just stepped on something unknown.

"That’s crazy..." he murmured, leaning in to get a better look. "Let me grab a photo of myself, this is—"

MJ’s phone vibrated on the bed. She picked it up and read the screen, sighing.

"My dad’s here," she said, sounding a little frustrated.

Peter blinked a few times, still caught up in what he had just seen, before forcing a smile. "Oh, okay. I’ll help you get things ready."

As Steve continued his online class, Peter followed MJ to the door. Outside, her parents’ car was waiting. MJ’s mother smiled at him through the glass, and Peter smiled back, a little awkwardly.

"I liked working on this project with you," MJ said, gently kicking the toe of her sneaker against the grass. "I think we’re going to do well on the presentation."

"Definitely," Peter replied, the smile returning to his face.

He hesitated for a second, then, before his courage escaped him, pulled MJ into a quick hug.

She laughed against his shoulder.

"See you tomorrow," he whispered.

"See you," she replied softly, before pulling away and getting into the car.

Peter stood there for a few seconds after the car drove off, still smelling MJ’s shampoo on his shirt.

When the car finally disappeared into the horizon, Peter went back inside, his heart still racing. He felt a mix of excitement and anxiety pushing him straight to the drawer where Steve kept all the photos. He could hardly wait to compare his with the image of the boy he had discovered — Peter Parker. In his eagerness, he didn’t notice the soft footsteps approaching from behind.

"What are you doing?"

Steve’s voice broke the silence like a sharp crack. Peter turned so quickly he almost lost his balance, his heart racing. He found his father standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

The shock was momentary, but the excitement still bubbled inside him. "You won’t believe it! I found a boy who—"

The smile died before he could finish the sentence. Steve’s gaze was cold, calculated, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a silent warning. Peter’s chest tightened.

"Dad?" His voice came out quieter than he intended. Something was wrong.

Steve moved slowly to the sofa and sat down with a calmness that only made the tension worse. The silence stretched, dense, before he finally spoke.

"I’m so disappointed in you."

The sentence hit like a sharp blow. Peter felt his stomach drop. "What did I do?" he whispered, fear rising inside him like poison.

The photos were scattered on the floor. Peter stood up, the instinct to fix his mistake already pushing him toward his father.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Steve asked. There was no anger in his voice, just a wounded tone that made Peter panic. "Of the things I do for you?"

Peter’s eyes widened, and before he could think, he was throwing his arms around his father, desperately trying to fix whatever he had done. "No! Never, Dad! I would never be ashamed of you!"

Steve sighed, his long fingers tracing slow circles on Peter’s arm. "It seemed like you were…" His voice was soft, almost kind, which only made it worse. "I was cutting your sandwich. But you pushed me away. Like you were ashamed."

Peter swallowed hard, his words coming out in a jumble. "No — not like that. I just... I just didn’t want to look like a kid." He squeezed the hug even tighter, as if the strength of his touch could undo the misunderstanding. "I’m sorry, Dad."

For a moment, Steve didn’t respond. He just held Peter close to his chest, as if weighing his remorse. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, cutting.

"I was just taking care of you."

Peter pulled back, his eyes desperately searching his father’s face. He already knew what was coming. He slowly stood up, his trembling fingers beginning to unbutton his pants, waiting for the punishment.

But Steve interrupted him.

"I’m not going to hit you."

The confusion was immediate. Peter blinked, trying to understand. "So... am I grounded?"

Steve simply shook his head and stood up. The silence was heavier than any answer. He walked away without saying another word, heading for the bedroom. The door closed softly, but to Peter, it sounded like a crash.

Panic set in fast.

"Dad?" He ran to the locked door, his breath short. He knocked gently at first, then harder. "Dad, I’m sorry! You can hit me, I... I won’t complain, I promise!"

Nothing.

The silence swallowed his plea, suffocating and endless. Peter slid to the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, murmuring endless apologies. The tears dried over time, but his throat still burned.

"Please... Daddy, I’m hungry," he whispered, trying to appeal to his father’s emotions. "Please, come out..."

This time, Steve responded. His voice came cold and distant from the other side of the door.

"You don’t need me to take care of you anymore. You can make your own meal."

He shook his head, desperate. "No, Dad, I need you! I’m sorry, please!"

The lock turned.

Peter held his breath, his eyes fixed on the doorknob. The door opened slowly, revealing Steve standing there, tall and unreachable. The relief was instant.

"I love you, daddy, so much. I’m sorry," Peter pleaded, raising his arms, waiting to be held, hoping to feel his father’s strong arms around him.

But Steve just walked past him, sidestepping his reach as if he didn’t see him.

The shock came first. Then, desperation.

Peter spun on his heels and ran after him. When Steve opened the bathroom door, Peter threw himself against him, clinging with all his strength.

"Don’t leave me alone, please!" His voice broke. "I already said I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise!"

Steve let out a long sigh before lifting him by the armpits. The relief was immediate. Peter curled against him, his legs around his waist, his face rubbing against Steve’s like a cat starved for affection.

And, finally, Steve gave in.

His lips brushed against Peter’s face in slow kisses. He murmured something against his skin—Peter couldn’t understand, but he wanted to believe it was forgiveness.

He closed his eyes, exhausted.

"Let me take a quick shower, and then I’ll make your food," Steve said.

Peter didn’t want to let go. His face buried in Steve’s neck, his fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, as if that contact was the only thing keeping him grounded in the present. Fear still weighed heavily in his chest.

"I want to go with you," he murmured against his father’s warm skin. His voice was small, trembling, almost inaudible.

Steve lowered his face a little, feeling Peter’s warm breath against his collarbone. A small, corner smile appeared on his lips.

"You want to shower with Dad?"

Peter pulled away just enough to look at him, his eyes wide and bright. He nodded quickly, almost too eager, as if the question didn’t need to be asked.

Steve didn’t need anything else. He just picked him up and carried him to the bathroom, keeping one hand firmly against the boy’s back.

The water slowly filled the tub, the soft sound of the liquid splashing against the porcelain filling the space with a gentle noise. The liquid soap mixed with the water, creating a thick, fragrant foam, the sweet smell of strawberries spreading throughout the room.

Peter didn’t let go. Even when Steve set him down briefly to take off his own clothes, his fingers remained intertwined with his father’s, holding tightly.

When Steve entered the tub, the water rose slightly, flowing over the surface with small waves. He settled in first, relaxed, before raising his eyes to Peter.

"Come," he called, extending a hand to him.

Peter hesitated. Just for a second. Enough for doubt to creep into his mind—the irrational fear that, if he took too long, Steve might change his mind, might send him back away.

Then, he stopped thinking. He just climbed in, letting out a soft sigh as he felt the temperature.

"It’s cold," he murmured, shivering slightly.

Steve raised an eyebrow, a subtle tease in his gaze.

"I like it like this," he replied, relaxing against the edge of the tub. "Don’t you want to shower with me anymore?"

Peter’s eyes widened, shaking his head too quickly. "I do!"

The answer came before he could stop it. The underlying desperation was almost palpable.

Steve smiled, satisfied, before pulling him closer. Peter let himself sink against him, feeling his father’s warm skin against his own. The sensation was comfortable, familiar.

Steve’s fingers slid through his hair, brushing a few strands from his forehead before grabbing the soap and starting to rub it on his skin with slow, careful movements. Peter stayed still, feeling the tension that had settled in his body slowly begin to dissolve.

"I love you, Dad," he whispered, his lips moving almost soundlessly.

Steve slid his soapy hand down his arm, continuing until their fingers intertwined once again.

"I love you much more."

Peter closed his eyes.

They stayed there until the water began to wrinkle their fingers. Only then did Steve lift him out of the bath, wrap him in a warm towel, and settle him on the toilet seat, giving one last gentle pat on his head before going back to finish washing himself.

Peter watched him the whole time. His gaze followed every movement, as if blinking might make Steve disappear again.

When the bath was over, Steve picked a comfortable pajama for him, dressing him with patient, firm gestures before taking his hand and guiding him out of the bathroom.

It was already late, and fatigue weighed on Peter like a second skin, but hunger still made itself known in his stomach.

Steve noticed. He took him to the kitchen and started preparing something quick — pasta with cheese sauce, accompanied by a piece of meatloaf from the night before.

The plastic plate was placed in front of him. He accepted without hesitation.

They ate in silence, Peter snuggled in Steve’s lap, accepting every bite his father brought to his mouth without protest. When they were done, Peter helped wash the dishes, his movements careful, precise. He knew how to behave.

Steve’s silence still hung in the air, but it wasn’t as harsh anymore. He responded to Peter’s whispered "I love you's," and that was enough. The worst had passed.

When they finally went to the bedroom, Steve settled him in bed with his usual efficiency. He stepped away for a moment to turn on the air conditioner and turn off the lights.

Peter wasted no time pulling him back. As soon as Steve lay down beside him, the boy clung to him, hiding his face against his chest, feeling the warmth of his strong body and the firmness of the arms surrounding him.

In the dark, the world seemed smaller, safe.

"Do you want a story?" Steve asked, his voice soft. His hand gently slid over Peter’s back in a slow, comforting caress.

Peter nodded, his eyes already heavy with sleep.

"Once upon a time, there was a sweet and curious little boy called The Little Prince..."

Steve’s voice filled the room like an enveloping whisper. Peter already knew the story, but that night, each word sounded different — almost as if it were made just for him.

The sound of his father’s voice lulled him, his whole body relaxing little by little, until his thoughts became cloudy, indistinct.

He dreamed of a sweet and curious little boy named Peter Parker.

Chapter 7

Before

When he was seven years old, Steve Rogers lived in a quaint little house in the most dangerous part of Brooklyn, where sirens were the constant soundtrack and the air reeked of marijuana. His mother worked six days a week washing dishes in a run-down restaurant that paid poorly and drained all her energy. On her days off, she would clean strangers' houses, always struggling to pay the bills and put some food on the table. "God has a plan for all of us," the priest would say every Sunday in church, holding his Bible. Steve, however, wondered what kind of plan involved passing out from exhaustion and stomachs growling with hunger night after night.

By the time he was twelve, Steve's life was hell. The boys at school hated him, and he never quite understood why. But, even without an apparent reason, they made a point of showing their contempt with insults and shoves whenever they could. At home, he dealt with a deeper pain – his mother, once strong and determined, had become a shadow of herself. She smiled less, spoke less, and the dark circles under her eyes were as deep as the bruises Steve tried to hide from her so as not to give her one more reason to worry. He knelt every night, hands clasped in prayer, begging God for help, for some relief. But nothing changed. The knot in his stomach, the loneliness, the hunger – it all persisted.

Then, his mother died.

"She fell asleep at the wheel," the doctors said. A simple explanation, perhaps even acceptable for those who only saw things from the outside. But Steve knew better. That morning, his mother was different. She had given him a radiant smile, something he hadn’t seen in months. She made chocolate pancakes, like in the old days, and hugged him for a long time before leaving for work. The hug was too long. And as Steve watched his mother’s coffin slowly lower, he wondered, not for the first time, what kind of plan God might have had for him.

Things changed after that. Living in an orphanage wasn’t as bad as Steve had imagined, and it was there that he met Bucky Barnes, a boy the same age, a bit quiet, but who quickly became his friend. Food was no longer scarce, and over time, Steve stopped being the skinny, undernourished boy and grew into a healthy young man – and, as he would later discover, an attractive one. The girls started smiling at him, leaving notes in his coat pockets, and making a point to compliment him whenever they could. He was also transferred to a new school, where he finally had access to a library. There, Steve spent hours reading books he had only dreamed of touching before.

It was on one of those ordinary days at the orphanage that he met Peggy Carter. She was only six, newly transferred from another orphanage, and, for some reason, decided that Steve was her older brother. He tried to convince her otherwise – even tried to kick her out of his room. But, as he would soon discover, Peggy Carter was stubborn. Very stubborn. And, over time, he began to enjoy her company. Shortly afterward, they became inseparable.

"Can you make a butterfly braid in my hair?" she would ask with her big, bright eyes, looking up at him expectantly.

"But butterflies don’t have braids," he’d reply, trying to be practical but already starting to separate her hair into sections, just like he did every time.

In early December, all the children gathered in the orphanage’s main hall to decorate the Christmas tree. The lights were twinkling, boxes of ornaments scattered across the floor, and the smell of hot chocolate filled the air. Steve and Bucky stayed in the corner, laughing and watching the younger kids decorate the tree. Peggy, on the other hand, looked at the others with dreamy eyes, clearly wanting to join them but too shy to take the first step.

"Why don’t you go help them?" Steve suggested, noticing her hesitation.

Peggy just shook her head, too shy to go over.

"Because she’s antisocial," Bucky teased, flashing a mocking grin. "And because she apparently needs you for everything."

"No, I don’t!" Peggy retorted, her small voice carrying genuine offense.

"Knock it off, man," Steve sighed, not wanting to start a tantrum. But deep down, he knew Bucky was right. Peggy was becoming too dependent on him, and it worried him. She had a hard time connecting with the other children, and Steve feared that her shyness could hurt her chances of getting adopted. On impulse, he crouched down, picked Peggy up, and set her on her feet, gently nudging her toward the tree. "Go on, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you can come back."

"But I–"

"She can’t do it, Steve," Bucky teased again, knowing exactly how this would poke at Peggy’s pride. They laughed as she, annoyed, stomped over to the other kids, her feet hitting the floor as if to prove that yes, she could.

From that day on, Steve decided Peggy needed to learn to be more independent. He spent months working on it, encouraging her to do things on her own. She learned to tie her own shoes, started playing more with the other kids, and even began making her own snacks. The butterfly braids, however, remained an exclusively Steve task for a very, very long time.

Then Peggy died.

"She fell off a chair while trying to reach a jar of cookies," the priest explained. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But Steve blamed himself. If he hadn’t encouraged Peggy to be independent, maybe she wouldn’t have tried to get the cookies on her own. Maybe she would have asked for his help, like she used to. Maybe she would have been occupied with the stories he used to tell or the games they played together, and wouldn’t have thought to climb that chair. So many "maybes," so many "what ifs," but none of them changed what had really happened. Because, apparently, God’s plan for a little girl like Peggy ended with her hitting her head on the floor, alone, and dying over something so trivial.

After that, Steve wasted away. He could no longer be the same. He spent hours in the orphanage garden, sitting near the blooming bushes where Peggy loved to play. He felt no hunger, no cold, and didn’t care about anything around him. It got to the point where he started to wonder if, in some way, it was he who had hit his head that day. Maybe it was he who was rotting in the ground while Peggy ran joyfully through the orphanage’s flowered garden with her friends. It was a comforting thought.

One day, Father Miguel called him for a talk. "I’m worried about you, Steve. Grief is hard, I know, but you can’t let yourself give up like this."

Steve tried to respond, but the words tangled in his throat. "I just..." he began, but the knot in his chest choked him. "I don’t understand."

The priest looked at him with compassion, holding his gaze. "God has a plan for all of us, son."

Steve let out a bitter laugh, a laugh with no joy. He couldn’t respond. He simply returned to his room, the weight of the priest’s words crushing him once again.

The next day, as he sat in the garden, something unusual happened. He saw a butterfly – maybe it was the light, or his mind playing tricks on him, but, for a brief moment, he swore the butterfly had tiny braids. The same braids he used to make in Peggy’s hair. He watched it fly, rising until it disappeared into the sky. And then, finally, Steve cried. He cried alone, in his bed, for three days straight, the tears carrying away the guilt and pain he’d tried to ignore for so long. Perhaps that butterfly was the last reminder of Peggy, or perhaps it was just a dream. But somehow, he knew it was a goodbye.

At twenty, Steve and Bucky shared a decent apartment in New York City. Steve had earned a scholarship to study History in college and worked part-time as a waiter in a restaurant that paid well, with friendly coworkers. Balancing academic responsibilities with work was exhausting, but, in the end, it was worth it.

"How about making some easy money now?" Bucky asked one Sunday afternoon, while Steve was finishing up an essay on the French Revolution and Bucky, sprawled on the cold floor, rolled around lazily.

"What kind of easy money?" Steve looked up from his computer, curious.

"The easy kind."

"More specifics, please."

"Just deliver a package for me," Bucky explained. "You don’t even have to leave the house. The guys come here, ring the doorbell, you hand over the package, take the money, close the door, and go back to your books. Simple, right?"

Steve frowned. "Did you give these guys our address?!"

"Relax, it’s not like in the movies," Bucky rolled his eyes. "If I do my job right, they don’t even remember I exist. And you know I’m good at what I do."

"What’s in the package?"

"You don’t need to know. You just need to hand it over."

"Why don’t you deliver it?"

"Because I have a date tonight, and I don’t want to cancel it over some dumb delivery," Bucky grumbled, irritated. "I suggested this because I thought you might want some easy money, but if not–"

"I want it," Steve interrupted him. Easy money was always tempting.

That night, when the doorbell rang, Steve grabbed the rectangular box he’d been staring at for the last two hours, questioning his choices. Open the door, hand over the package, close the door. Simple. But when he opened the door, he froze.

A man in a suit, completely out of place in that run-down hallway, was looking at him with a charming smile. Steve couldn’t decide what was stranger: the impeccable suit, the sunglasses at night, or the way the stranger’s smile made his heart race. He quickly shoved the package into the man’s hands and tried to close the door. But the man was faster, putting his foot in the doorway.

"I need a team to pick up an important package," the man said, in a mocking tone, as if it were a joke that Steve didn’t get. "Are you available?"

Damn. Is Bucky available? Steve wondered. The obvious choice was to say no, but the guy seemed to be offering something big – and what if the money was big too?

"I, uh... need to check my schedule," Steve stammered. "But I’ll message you as soon as I know."

"Message?" The man raised his eyebrows, amused.

"Or... maybe I’ll call?"

"You're not Bucky Barnes, are you?" The man asked with a smirk.

Damn.

"Look, sir, I swear I didn’t open the package. You can check it if you want!"

"Want to know what’s inside?"

Steve hesitated, but his curiosity faded with the way the man looked at him, his gaze momentarily drifting to his mouth.

"...no?" Steve murmured, trying to keep his composure.

The man smiled, satisfied, and walked into the apartment like he owned the place. "My name’s Tony, by the way."

Dating Tony was wonderful. He was funny, caring, amazing in bed, and, to top it all off, rich. Steve knew he’d hit the jackpot. And, like any smart man, he decided to marry him.

"What are you doing there, standing with the fridge open?" Steve asked.

Tony shrugged. "Waiting for something tasty to appear by magic. It doesn’t work – I’ve tried before."

Their life was good, simple, and happy. Steve started teaching at a prestigious university, while Tony took over the family business after his father passed away. They lived in a charming house with a garden that Steve loved to tend, and their neighbors were friendly. Bucky lived nearby, stopping by almost every weekend for a beer or a barbecue. Life was very, very good. And it stayed that way for a long time.

Then he met Peter.

Steve was exhausted and irritated. A silly fight with Tony that morning, coupled with the stress of dealing with uninterested students who didn’t know how to meet deadlines, had ruined his mood. He decided to walk home instead of waiting for Tony to pick him up. Maybe that would make Tony feel a little guilty, he thought maliciously. It was a beautiful day, so along the way, he allowed himself a break in the park to enjoy an ice cream and relax.

“Let’s go find Daddy,” he heard a woman say just before he felt something bump into his leg. Looking down, he found a smiling little boy who looked like an angel.

“Daddy!”

“No,” the woman laughed, giving him an apologetic look as she took the boy’s little hands. “Daddy is over there, honey. Let’s go.”

Steve watched the little boy — no more than two years old — walk with small but energetic steps. He walked through the park like a tiny explorer.

Suddenly, a man appeared, scooping up the boy, who let out a joyful squeal. Something tight and uncomfortable tugged at Steve’s chest as he watched the scene.

“Where do you think you’re going, little man?” the man said, smiling.

“We were looking for you,” the woman replied, smiling as well.

Later, while seasoning the meat for dinner, Steve couldn’t get the little boy out of his head. Had he eaten dinner yet? It was adorable how he’d looked at Steve, or did he look at everyone like that? Maybe he was already asleep by now. After all, it must be late for him to still be awake.

“Are we going to keep giving each other the silent treatment for much longer?” Tony asked, using that tone he had when he wanted to address something but didn’t want to admit he was bothered.

Steve frowned. He’d almost forgotten they’d had a fight. “I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

Steve wanted to say: About a little boy I met in the park today. I wish I’d asked for his name. I bet he looks adorable in his pajamas right now, and I realized it’s been a long time since I read bedtime stories to someone.

But what he said was: “That you could help me here.”

Tony grumbled but went to help him.

The next day, on his way home, Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to stop at the park again. He told himself a bit of fresh air would be good for his mind, but deep down, he knew the real reason. His eyes scanned the open space, looking for the boy. And then he found him, playing alone in the sandbox while his parents chatted a little distance away, distracted. Steve shook his head in disbelief. How could they be so careless? Didn’t they know there were terrible people in the world, ready to take something as precious as their child?

And so, without realizing it, this became a routine. Five days a week, Steve stopped by the park. Sometimes he brought a newspaper to pretend he was reading, other times he bought an ice cream, but always with the same goal: to watch the boy. Over time, he learned that his name was Peter, that he’d be turning two the following week, and that he loved spiders. Peter was smart, sweet, and adventurous — too adventurous for Steve’s liking, who constantly worried about the risks around him.

On weekends, Steve missed Peter in a way that was almost painful. It was ridiculous, he knew. Missing a child he’d never even spoken to? But he couldn’t help it.

“Okay, Steve, what’s going on?” Tony asked in a serious tone one evening during dinner.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Tony sighed, annoyed. “Well, let’s start with the fact that you’re constantly lost in thought, leaving the house without saying where you’re going, and now you’ve started murmuring the name of another man in your sleep.”

Steve froze. “Tony—”

“Who is Peter, Steve?” Tony asked, his voice softer but full of tension. “Are you… cheating on me?”

Steve was stunned by the suggestion. “Tony, of course not! I would never do that; you know that.”

“Then what’s going on?” Tony asked, his gaze tired, searching for an explanation that made sense. “Please, don’t lie to me.”

Steve took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. He feared the truth would be devastating, that Tony would think he was crazy. But there was no way to avoid it anymore. “I’ll show you.”

At the park, Peter was different that day. Instead of running around happily, he was curled up in his mother's lap, head down, absentmindedly playing with a little toy. His nose was red, and he coughed from time to time. Steve felt a pang of worry, wishing he could check if the boy had a fever.

"So… this is Peter?" Tony asked, unsure how to start the conversation.

Steve nodded absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on Peter. He was worried that Peter was sick and wondered why his mother had brought him to the park instead of keeping him warm and comfortable at home. “He should be lying down, resting,” Steve murmured, almost to himself.

“He looks kinda messed up,” Tony joked, trying to lighten the mood. But Steve was quick to retort, his voice harsher than he intended:

“He’s perfect.”

The silence between them grew as the sun began to set. When Mary got up from the bench to leave with Peter, Tony took the opportunity to resume the conversation, his tone more serious:

“Steve, I need you to explain what’s going on.”

Steve shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “There’s not much to say. I come here and watch him.”

“Watch him?!” Tony repeated, the disbelief in his voice starting to show.

“You don’t understand, Tony. He’s… He’s perfect. Kind, smart, and so, so loving.”

“Right, but that doesn’t justify you… following him?” Tony squinted, trying to understand. “Are you stalking a child?”

“Tony…”

“This isn’t healthy, Steve,” Tony insisted, now more firmly.

Steve huffed impatiently, abruptly standing up and heading toward the car. But Tony was quick, grabbing his arm and turning him to face him, his expression serious.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tony asked, his voice tense.

“Peter’s sick,” Steve replied, trying to stay calm. “I want to see if he’s okay.”

“To see if he’s okay?” Tony blinked a few times, confused, until his eyes widened in realization. “You know where he lives.”

Steve met his gaze, unwavering, the tension in the air almost tangible. “Yes.”

Tony took a deep breath, trying to process it, and asked, with forced calm: “Steve… How long has this been going on?”

“Nine months,” Steve admitted, the truth finally spilling out, as heavy silence settled between them.

To Steve’s surprise, Tony didn’t leave him. He still kissed him affectionately every day when he got home, slept curled up with him every night, and made love with the same passion as always. But he never mentioned Peter’s name again.

Until that night.

It was one of those evenings when Steve stayed out late, waiting for the lights in the Parkers' house to go out before approaching. He followed the familiar path to the back of the house, hidden by the shadows of the night, up to Peter's bedroom window. To his surprise, the boy was still awake, playing quietly with his plastic spiders.

Steve noticed Peter’s new pajamas: yellow, decorated with little clowns all over, making him look like a little yellow chick. He watched, almost in a trance, until he heard a voice behind him.

“You look creepy like that,” Tony whispered, a playful smile on his lips.

Steve jumped, his heart racing. “Shit, Tony, you scared me!” he whispered back. “What are you doing here?”

Tony shrugged, looking relaxed. “I was bored. So, how’s the little squirt?”

“He’s fine,” Steve muttered, still shaken. “Seriously, Tony, go home. This isn’t funny.”

“Shh, let me see him,” Tony insisted, nudging Steve lightly aside, trying to get a better view through the window. “Why’s he still awake?”

“He’s playing,” Steve replied, impatiently.

“Oh, really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Tony rolled his eyes. “But why’s he playing at this hour?”

“I don’t know, Tony, do you want to ask him?!” Steve shot back, his irritation growing.

“Jesus, what’s gotten into you?”

“Why are you here?” Steve fired back, clenching his hands, trying to keep control.

“What, only you get to stalk the kid now?” Tony shot back, with a short, sarcastic laugh.

Frustrated, Steve shoved Tony lightly and started walking toward the car down the street, Tony close behind. The drive home was silent.

As soon as they walked through the door, Steve stopped, feeling the weight of everything that had been happening. “I know this isn’t normal,” he began, his voice trembling. “But you don’t have the right to ruin it all! You can’t mock me, Tony!”

“I’m not mocking you,” Tony tried, raising his hands in surrender.

“He matters to me!” Steve shouted, emotions spilling over. “You can’t just show up and risk them finding out just because you think it’s funny! You can’t destroy this, Tony!”

“Steve, calm down!”

“No!” Tears ran down Steve’s face as he moved toward Tony. “He’s mine. He’s mine, and you’re not going to take that away from me!”

Tony, in a quick movement, gently held Steve’s face, pulling him close. “I know,” he whispered, his eyes intense. “That was never my intention. I swear.”

“Then why? Why now?” Steve demanded, his voice a desperate whisper.

Tony kissed him softly before pulling away and picking up the laptop. “Because I know how much this means to you.”

Steve looked at the screen, confused. It was a live stream. He watched Peter putting away his spiders, snuggling into his blankets. The bright yellow pajamas stood out against the blue starry blanket. His eyes widened as he realized what Tony had done.

“I put cameras in,” Tony explained, with a calmness that nearly unbalanced Steve. “For you. And because I love you.”

Steve fell asleep with the laptop on the desk beside his bed for many nights afterward. Every morning, he woke up to the image of Peter, sleepy-eyed, rubbing his eyes. Between classes, he would open the app on his phone for a quick look, sometimes lucky enough to see Peter playing or drawing.

This new dynamic between Steve and Tony went beyond a simple change in routine. What started as Tony’s mild curiosity about Peter quickly transformed into something deeper. Gradually, he began to share in Steve’s obsession. The boy who had once been a distant figure in conversations now held a fixed place in Tony’s thoughts.

He began to accompany Steve on trips to the park, where the two of them watched Peter play from afar, talking about him as if he were already part of their lives. Tony started sending photos of random things throughout the day— toys, children’s clothes— anything that reminded him of Peter. And, eventually, he started checking the cameras without Steve needing to ask, opening the laptop when they were home, sitting on the couch, or lying in bed.

“He’s covered in chocolate cake,” Tony commented suddenly, with a soft smile as he looked at the laptop in his lap. They were sprawled on the couch, Steve too focused on grading papers to notice that Tony had opened the camera.

Steve leaned in, curious. “Let me see.”

On the screen, Peter was sitting on the couch, eating a generous slice of chocolate cake while watching Looney Tunes. Crumbs were scattered across his face, and Steve almost laughed, but the scene stirred something else within him.

“That’s the third time he’s eaten chocolate cake this week,” he commented, frowning.

“So what? The kid clearly likes it,” Tony shrugged, unconcerned.

“So what? Childhood diabetes is a real thing, Tony,” Steve replied with an annoyed sigh. “They’re terrible parents. I’d be a much better father to Peter.”

The silence that followed was heavy, cutting the air between them. Steve realized too late what he’d said, but it was already out there. He looked at Tony, who was staring at him with a curious expression, almost evaluating him.

“What?” Steve asked, uncomfortable with the silence.

Tony tilted his head slightly, his voice low and soft. “Is that what you want? To be Peter’s father?”

The question lingered in the air, echoing in Steve’s mind. Peter’s father. The idea took shape, expanding in his mind until it felt like the only thing that made sense. Steve, Peter’s father. His heart tightened with sadness and longing at the thought. It would be perfect. He’d do anything to be Peter’s father.

"Anything?" Tony repeated, and Steve realized he had spoken out loud. Still, he didn’t hesitate.

“Anything.”

The smile Tony gave in response was slow and calculated, as if he were considering all the implications. Steve didn’t know what came next, but in that moment, all he could think was that, somehow, he would make this happen.

Bucky accepted Steve’s confession with surprising calm.

“You were always kind of weird,” he said after hearing the whole story about how Steve had been following a kid for almost two years.

Steve laughed, but the sound was half incredulous. “That’s all you have to say?”

Bucky shrugged, as if it were just another thing between friends. “I’m with you till the end of the line, man.” He cracked open a can of beer with a sharp pop and took a long sip. “What do you need my help with?”

Steve hesitated, taking a sip of his own beer, reflecting for a moment. “Nothing, for now. Tony inherited some land in Malibu. It’s pretty isolated, so it should work. We’re thinking of moving there later.”

The bar they were in was small and quiet, filled with soft lights and the sound of muffled conversations in the background. The waitress arrived with a plate of fries, and Bucky winked at her before grabbing one.

“So… how are you guys gonna get the kid to California?” Bucky asked casually, chewing.

Steve picked up a fry, his eyes lowered as he thought through the logistics. “Tony’s team will help.”

“Tony’s team?” Bucky laughed, mocking. “Sounds very professional.”

“You used to be part of his team,” Steve teased, raising an eyebrow with a slight smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Dark times. Now it’s Sergeant Barnes to you.” He chuckled, taking another sip, the playful tone returning. “But seriously, how’s that gonna work? You’re planning to drive cross-country with a kidnapped kid? That’s gonna attract attention.”

Steve frowned, popping a fry in his mouth, thoughtful. “It’s not like we’re planning a show. We’ll be discreet. And Tony… he has connections. It’s not impossible, you know?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Connections, sure. But then what? You two gonna live in some isolated house with the kid, playing happy family?”

Bucky’s question, although said lightly, echoed in Steve’s mind. Playing happy family? No, he thought. He and Tony weren’t playing. “This isn’t a game, Buck,” he said, more serious than he intended. “Peter… he’s different. He deserves a better life than the one he has now. We can give that to him.”

Bucky bit his lip, his eyes watching Steve’s face for a moment. “You know this whole thing is insane, right? But… if this is what you want to do, and Tony’s in it with you, I won’t judge you. Just… be careful, Steve. This could go very wrong.”

Steve nodded slowly, appreciating his friend’s sincerity. “I know it could. But I’m going to make it work.”

On Peter’s fourth birthday, they sat in a secluded corner of the same pizzeria where the Parkers had decided to celebrate. From where they were, they had a good view of the Parkers' table and the playground, which quickly captured Peter’s attention. The pizza was nothing special—a simple place, within what they could afford. Steve chewed it without much attention, his eyes fixed on the boy running around. Tony, however, couldn’t hide his distaste.

“Look, he made a friend,” Steve commented, watching fondly as his son played tag with a slightly older boy.

“At least someone’s having fun,” Tony muttered, eyeing the greasy layer on his plate with a grimace.

Steve let out a light laugh. “You’ve put worse things in your mouth.”

“Wouldn’t say worse, dear,” Tony smiled back, mischievous.

The arrival of the waiter interrupted their exchanged glances. He placed two glasses of wine on the table and stepped back, murmuring as he left, “It’s done, boss.”

Steve frowned, turning to Tony with growing curiosity. Tony shrugged, his eyes gleaming: “It’s a surprise,” he said, enigmatic.

The surprise, Steve would later find out, was that Tony had managed to drug Mary and Richard Park. Some kind of sedative in the drinks they’d have, strong enough to make sure they stayed out for the whole night. He had also arranged for a copy of their key, allowing Steve to enter the house and go up to Peter’s room without any difficulty.

When he finally stepped into the boy’s room, Steve felt his heart clench. The room was permeated by the sweet scent of baby powder, a gentle smell that matched the stillness of Peter’s sleep. He moved forward, each step calculated, until he was just inches away from the boy. Peter slept deeply, his small fingers half-curled, lightly grazing his earlobe. Steve leaned in closer, extending a trembling hand, and touched his face as if he were touching something sacred.

He felt a shiver run through him at finally feeling his son’s skin. He ran his hand softly over his face, tears welling up, uncontained. Steve placed gentle kisses on Peter’s face, each touch almost reverent, as emotion overwhelmed him, intoxicating and overpowering. After a long moment, he gathered the courage to lift him in his arms. The feeling was indescribable—like he was holding something divine, something that was a part of him, an inexplicable bond.

Tony sat beside him on the bed, resting his head on his shoulder as he watched Peter, equally enchanted. They said nothing, but the bond between them was palpable, dark, almost ritualistic. They remained there, quiet, lulled by a feeling that transcended any moral or rational boundary.

When they finally had to return Peter to his bed, Steve felt a knot forming in his chest. He kissed the boy once more, a gentle and affectionate touch, but promising himself it would be the last time he would leave him. He knew, with a certainty that consumed him entirely, that Peter was God's plan for him.

 

Notes:

Firstly, thank you so much for all the kudos and comments on the previous chapter, I really appreciate it!

About the chapter, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this spin-off focused on Steve. Now we get a chance to understand a bit more about his personality, his fears and insecurities. This chapter also raises a new questions:
"what exactly is Tony involved in?" Maybe you already have some ideas, but what is the true extent of it? And, more importantly, what consequences will this bring for Peter in the future?

Chapter 8

After

Ned was restless, bouncing his legs and gesturing as if he had just discovered a huge secret.

"Listen, remember that old movie? The one where the twins are separated when they’re babies, and one goes to live with the mother and the other with the father? What if that's it? What if he’s your lost twin brother? Like, really lost because he disappeared, but also because you two were separated when you were babies. It makes so much sense!"

MJ stopped chewing the cookie and looked at Peter, nodding toward Ned. "Does he always travel like this?"

Peter let out a sigh. "All the time."

"Do you have a better theory?" Ned shot back, crossing his arms.

Peter didn’t answer. He was staring at the photo he was holding—a picture of him as a child, surrounded by Christmas presents. It wasn’t the best choice for comparison, but it was the only one he had grabbed in the rush. Happy was honking outside, and his dad was hurrying him, asking why the hell he was taking so long.

Even so, the feeling lingered. Something about that image bothered him. The resemblance was too much.

"It might just be a coincidence," he murmured, trying to push the thought away.

"That’d be pretty boring," Ned shot back.

"Unlikely," MJ corrected, grabbing the cookie package from his hand. "But if you really want to know the truth, there’s an easy way to figure this out."

Both of them stared at her.

"We contact them."

Peter blinked. "Who?"

"The police?" Ned suggested.

"Definitely not!" Peter answered quickly, his stomach turning at the thought.

"This is getting good," Ned commented, smiling like this was an episode of a police show.

MJ ignored him and pointed at the laptop screen. "His family."

On the open page, a phone number stood out in the missing person’s notice:

If you have any information about Peter Parker, please contact the police or his family at the number: 0765-9825.

Peter rubbed his face. "It can’t be that simple."

"Sometimes, it’s just about doing the obvious thing," MJ said, already dialing.

Ned’s eyes widened. "Wait, shouldn’t we plan this better?"

"Trust me."

The call started ringing. The three of them held their breath.

Then, a woman’s voice answered. "Hello?"

MJ didn’t hesitate. "Hi, good morning! My name is Gwen Stacy, I’m a journalist. I’m writing an article about Peter Parker’s disappearance. Am I speaking with...?"

There was a brief silence on the other end, then:

"May Parker."

Peter felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Great," MJ continued, not missing a beat. "I know it’s been a long time, but would you have a few minutes to answer some questions? I promise I won’t take much of your time."

"Well..." May seemed to hesitate, and for a second, Peter thought she might hang up. But then she let out a small sigh. "Sure. You just caught me by surprise. I thought the case was archived."

"Actually, we’re reviewing some information," MJ said. "I wanted to understand better what happened."

May was silent for a moment, as if deciding where to start.

"I never met Peter personally," she finally said. "When he disappeared, I had just started dating Ben—his father’s brother. We weren’t a close family, but when everything happened... we came together."

She paused for a moment. Peter imagined she must have been reliving everything.

"The police thought he just got lost in the woods. They organized searches, lots of people helped. But something didn’t feel right. Peter was never the type to leave without a word."

"And they didn’t consider another possibility?"

"Not at first." May’s voice shifted a little, a hint of frustration in it. "You know how it is, right? A kid goes missing, they always say they just got lost. But we kept insisting it didn’t make sense. The delay cost us dearly."

Peter felt a tightness in his chest.

Ned, who had been silent until then, spoke up: "Do you think the police were covering something up?"

MJ rolled her eyes. "Subtle, Ned."

On the other end, May let out a short laugh, but it was without humor. "I don’t know if I’d go that far. But they were negligent, for sure. In the end, we had to go on by ourselves."

"And you kept searching?"

"Yeah. For a while." May sighed. "But... a lot of people gave up. Everyone, except for Mary."

Peter clenched his fingers into his thigh. "His mom?"

The silence on the other end was different this time.

"Mary and Richard died two years later," May said, finally. "Robbery followed by murder."

The impact of those words hit immediately. Peter felt like the ground had disappeared for a moment.

"That’s horrible," MJ murmured, her voice lower now.

"The police said the robbers got scared and... well, that was that." May took a deep breath. "They took some jewelry, a watch... but they never found anyone."

Her hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.

"Do you think it was just a robbery?" Peter asked, before he could stop himself.

May took a long time to answer. "I don’t know. I just know Mary never gave up. The search for Peter became her life. It was all she did. She talked to people, went through files, barely slept. It was like she lived for that."

"Do you think she found something?"

Another silence.

"Sometimes I think she did," May said softly. "The last time I spoke to her... she called me, said she needed to tell me something. She had found a clue."

Peter swallowed hard.

"But when I got there, it was too late."

The weight of those words fell heavily on everyone in the room.

"Do you think... that’s why?" Peter asked, his voice small.

"I don’t know," she said, finally. "But sometimes, I wonder."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with implications no one wanted to say out loud.

"Well... sorry, but I have to get back to work. Did you get what you needed?"

MJ cleared her throat, recovering her professional tone. "Yes, of course. Thank you for talking to us, Mrs. Parker."

"If you need anything else, let me know. I have some documents saved... if you think it could help."

"We’ll stay in touch," MJ said.

The call ended.

She lowered the phone slowly. The three of them exchanged looks. No one knew what to say.

Ned was the first to break the silence.

"Well... that was heavy," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "And still kind of inconclusive. Like, no one asked if he had a twin brother or anything."

Peter rolled his eyes. "My mom died when I was born, Ned. Mary Parker died years later. The math doesn’t add up."

"Okay, but what if your parents just told you that so you wouldn’t feel abandoned?" Ned insisted, fully embracing his theory now. "Come on, doesn’t that make sense?"

MJ scoffed. "Are you sure that’s the best theory you have?"

Peter let out a dry laugh. "What? You think I was kidnapped? Sorry, but I’m not locked in a basement with no windows. I go to school, use the internet, live a normal life."

MJ crossed her arms, not looking away. "Peter... you only started school last year. And you live in the middle of nowhere. You can’t ignore that something’s wrong here."

Peter’s chest tightened, but he refused to give in. "You’re jumping to absurd conclusions."

"Okay, maybe we’re exaggerating," Ned tried to soften it, raising his hands. "Maybe he just looks like the kid."

"Oh, don’t give me that, Ned," MJ shot back, irritated. "You know Steve too. And you know there’s something off about him."

Peter felt his stomach churn. "What?!" He leaned forward, his voice louder than he wanted. "There’s nothing wrong with my dad!"

MJ didn’t blink. "He’s been watching us the whole time, Peter. Like he’s waiting for us to mess up."

Peter’s blood boiled. He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor. "You’re crazy."

"Peter—"

"Enough, MJ!" He cut her off, his voice trembling. "You don’t know anything about my life."

Peter left the table so quickly he didn’t even notice where he was going. He just wanted to get away. The knot in his throat tightened, and every word MJ said seemed to echo in his head, distorted, suffocating. "There’s something wrong here, and you know it."

Did he know?

He pushed open the bathroom door and locked himself in the first empty stall. His heart pounded too hard, his thoughts racing. This was ridiculous. Completely absurd. But then... why couldn’t he shake that awful feeling in his stomach?

He pressed his hands against his knees, breathing fast. They were exaggerating. That had to be it. Just because a missing boy from years ago looked like him didn’t mean anything. How many kids named Peter were there in the world? How many boys with brown eyes and brown hair? Thousands. Millions.

And Steve...

Peter closed his eyes, trying to erase the insecurity before it rooted itself.

Steve had always been his dad. As long as he could remember, Steve had been there. Waking up early to make breakfast, holding his hand whenever he was sick, insisting he wear a jacket on cold days. Steve put him to bed with stories and kissed his forehead every night. Steve was everything. He was home.

And yet...

The memory of that night hit him hard. Peter, at ten or eleven, asking about his mother. Wanting to know more about the woman who gave her life for him. And Steve’s expression when he answered. The way he avoided eye contact, the way his voice sounded... calculated.

"We don’t talk about that, Peter."

What did that mean? Why didn’t they ever talk about it?

Peter ran his hands over his face, his breathing shaky. The anger he had felt at the table with MJ and Ned was starting to mix with something else. Something colder. Heavier.

He pulled his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers. He needed to hear Steve. He needed something real, something familiar, something to make this stupid doubt go away before it spread like poison.

He called once. Twice.

"Pete?" Steve's voice answered, sounding somewhat confused. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

The nickname, the concerned tone, everything about him felt so normal. Peter swallowed hard, but his voice still came out choked. "Dad..."

A pause.

"Peter? What's wrong?" Steve's tone shifted instantly.

And then, it was as if something inside Peter simply broke. He tried to respond, but the first word came out too shaky. Then came a sob.

"Peter, talk to me. Are you hurt?"

"No," he managed to say, but the crying had already begun. He pressed the phone to his ear as if it could make everything real, as if Steve could somehow pull him into his arms from the other end of the line and tell him everything was okay.

"Pete, what happened?"

"I don't know," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"Sorry for what?" Steve asked, and Peter could hear the tension in his voice.

"I don't know," he repeated, his breath short and uneven. "Just... I'm sorry."

On the other side of the line, Steve moved quickly. "Where are you?"

"In the bathroom."

"Are you alone?"

He nodded, even though he knew Steve couldn't see.

"Okay," Steve said, his voice taking on that firm, reassuring tone. "I'm on my way. Stay there, take deep breaths, okay?"

Peter tried. He really did. But nothing felt right.

Time dragged on after that. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there on the cold floor, listening to his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know when his phone died, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

But he knew exactly when the bathroom door slammed open.

"Peter!"

Steve’s voice.

And in that moment, all the doubt, all the overwhelming confusion, was replaced by a single feeling: relief.

Peter felt the word slip out before he even thought about it.

"Daddy..."

His voice came out small, fragile. His trembling fingers fought to unlock the stall door, and as soon as it opened, strong arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

Steve held him like he could protect him from whatever was haunting him. His hands quickly ran over Peter's back, as if checking that he was whole.

"It's okay. I'm here," Steve murmured, holding Peter's face between his hands. His blue eyes scanned him urgently. "Are you hurt?"

Peter bit his lip, his chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm. He didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense. Everything was confusing, scrambled, suffocating. So instead of speaking, he simply clung to Steve's neck and hid his face there.

Steve didn't hesitate. He just tightened his arms around him, holding him firmly as if he could protect him from whatever was destroying him inside.

There were voices in the background—Tony talking to the principal, hurried footsteps in the hallway—but everything seemed distant. The only reality was the constant movement as Steve carried him out of the bathroom, holding him so carefully that Peter didn’t even care that he was being carried like a child.

When they reached the car, Steve climbed into the backseat with him in his arms, adjusting him against his chest. Peter let himself sink into the familiar warmth, feeling his father's fingers slide through his hair before a soft kiss was pressed against his forehead.

"Ready to tell me what happened?" Steve asked, his voice low, not pushing.

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. He just squeezed his eyes shut and curled up even more, as if he could shrink enough to disappear right there, in his dad's safe embrace.

Steve sighed but didn’t press. "It's okay. You can talk when you're ready."

The car door opened, and Tony appeared, holding Peter’s backpack. His serious expression softened a little when he saw his son curled up against Steve, but the concerned look stayed.

"Hey, Underoos," he called, his voice softer than usual as he slid into the car.

Peter blinked slowly, his eyes still heavy and swollen. "Hi, Dad," he murmured.

Tony forced a smile, but his gaze was scanning every detail of the boy, as if trying to figure out what had happened without needing to ask. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then changed his approach.

"You were going to come home and find a chocolate cake," he said, trying to sound casual. "With extra frosting. My and Steve’s plan."

For a moment, Peter tried to hold onto the idea—the comforting familiarity of coming home and finding something good waiting for him. But guilt crushed any attempt at joy before it could even form. He wanted to smile, wanted to feel safe in his parents' arms, but the suffocating feeling that something was wrong never left him.

Tony noticed. "Wanna tell me what happened?" His voice was still gentle, but now firmer.

Peter averted his gaze, curling against Steve. "I don't know, Dad..." He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the fabric of his uniform that he was still wearing. "I don’t know how to explain. It was just... too much."

Steve held him tighter, his hand moving up and down his back in an automatic motion. "It's okay, baby. You don't have to talk now."

But Peter knew that wasn’t true. They were going to want answers. Eventually, the questions would come, and he had no idea how to answer them without everything falling apart.

When Tony leaned in to take him, replacing Steve, Peter didn’t resist. He just gave in, letting himself sink into his father’s embrace.

The smell of cologne and motor oil was familiar, and for a moment, he wanted to believe that would be enough to push the storm in his mind away. But the thoughts kept spiraling out of control.

What if MJ was right?

What if all of this was just...

He tried to push the thought away, but couldn’t.

Tony’s arms tightened around him. "Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together, okay?" He rested his chin on top of Peter’s head, his voice full of certainty. "Always. We’re a team."

Peter sniffled, his eyes burning. He buried his face into Tony's chest, as if he could hide there forever.

"I just want to go home," he whispered.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive. Or maybe it did, but Peter was so lost in thought that he barely blinked before they were back. He felt Tony’s firm grip as he carried him inside, leading him straight to the bathroom and sitting him on the counter while a damp cloth gently slid over his face. They didn’t say anything, but Peter could feel Tony’s watchful gaze on him, evaluating him at every moment.

Fatigue weighed on his bones, and his eyes burned. At some point, his clothes were changed into soft pajamas. Then, Tony guided him to the bed, pulling the blankets around him with an automatic gesture.

"Rest a bit, love," he said before leaving the room.

Peter curled up in the sheets, feeling something cold and familiar pressed into his palm. The phone.

He hadn’t let go of it since the bathroom, even after the battery died. His fingers moved on their own, grabbing the charger beside the bed. The click of the cable connecting to the device seemed too loud in the dark room.

The screen lit up.

Peter stared at the phone for a long moment, too afraid to unlock it. Part of him didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to read.

His fingers slid over the screen, and then the messages appeared.

(10:45) Ned: Where are you, man? I searched the whole school for you.

(10:52) MJ: I'm sorry for the way I spoke, but I still think something's going on. Can we talk?

(11:18) MJ: The principal came to get your backpack, are you leaving??

(11:30) MJ: Are you safe?

Peter’s eyes froze on the last message.

Safe? Of course, he was safe. He was home. With his parents. He had always been safe with them... right?

Peter pressed the phone against his chest, as if he could suffocate the unease growing inside him. But the question lingered in his mind, cruel and persistent: what if...?

He shook his head. No. That was ridiculous. He would tell his parents everything, they would laugh at the situation, and this absurd anxiety would disappear.

Resolved, he threw off the blankets and got out of bed. His legs felt heavy as he walked down the dark hallway to the living room, where he heard muffled voices. The low, urgent tone made his heart tighten.

As soon as he entered, the voices stopped abruptly.

"Peter?" Steve was the first to speak.

Tony furrowed his brow. "Is everything okay?"

Peter's resolve faltered. He opened his mouth, but the words felt stuck in his throat. His eyes burned again, not from exhaustion. He took a deep breath and, with effort, managed to say:

"I found a photo."

Steve exchanged a glance with Tony. "A photo?"

Before Peter could continue, Tony's phone vibrated loudly in his pocket. He picked it up, looked at the screen, and muttered, "It's Rhodey." He ended the call without responding and turned his attention back to Peter. "I'll call back later. You can talk."

Peter ran his hands over his face, frustrated with his own hesitation. "I... I don’t know how to say this."

Tony sighed and moved closer, guiding him to the couch, then kneeling in front of him. Steve sat beside him, watching him closely.

"It's okay, Underoos," Tony said, his voice softer now. "Talk to us."

Peter raised his gaze, studying both of them with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably. He swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice came out almost in a whisper:

"Are you my parents?"

Silence fell over the room like a thick fog. For a moment, Peter wished they would laugh, call him silly for asking such a question. But they didn’t.

Steve made a forced, fragile sound. "What kind of question is that? Of course, we're your parents."

Tony, however, remained still, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why are you asking that, Peter?"

Tears escaped before he could stop them. He clenched his fists to gather courage, but his voice still trembled as he said:

"Am I Peter Parker?"

The silence that followed wasn’t just hesitation. It was an answer. A confession.

Steve blinked, shaking his head as if trying to shake off Peter's words. "What? No. You’re Peter Stark Rogers. My son!" His voice cracked, but the insistence sounded almost desperate, as if saying it out loud could make it the absolute truth.

"Steve," Tony called, a warning tone in his voice, but it was ignored.

"You’re my baby, and I’m your father!" Steve lunged forward, grabbing Peter’s shoulders, his expression a mix of panic and denial. "Say it! Say you’re my son!"

Tony felt his stomach churn seeing the scene unfold. It was spiraling out of control.

"Who told you that, Peter?" His voice came out calmer than he actually felt.

Peter sobbed, hot tears sliding down his face. "I found a photo!" He exploded, his voice choking on his tears. He tried to break free, but Steve only held him tighter. "And I called her—LET ME GO!"

"DO NOT YELL AT ME!" Steve yelled back, his own pain overflowing as tears streamed down his face.

Tony jumped to his feet. "Who did you call?!" His tone carried a near-desperate urgency. "Who did you call, Peter?!"

"You lied to me!" Peter accused, desperation making his voice almost unrecognizable. He struggled, kicking, scratching, until he bit Steve’s arm, but nothing made him let go.

Steve sobbed, holding his son tightly, like a man holding onto the only thing left in his life. "You can’t leave me. I’m all you have!"

Tony moved in, trying to intervene. "Steve, let him go."

"I won’t let go!" Steve screamed back, hoarse, his entire body trembling with desperation. "He’s my baby! He won’t leave me!"

"Shit," Tony murmured, feeling his mouth go dry. But then something froze everyone in the room.

Sirens.

Red and blue lights started flashing through the cracks in the window.

"Shit!" Tony repeated, now in pure panic. His eyes met Peter’s, who was shaking, his hands clutching his chest, eyes wide and wet. "What did you do, Peter?!"

"I-I didn’t—"

Before he could finish, a loud thud echoed through the house, followed by a firm, authoritative voice:

"Police! Open the door now!"

Steve’s grip on Peter tightened. "Tony?" His voice was barely audible. He stood up, still holding his son, searching for answers in his husband’s eyes. "Tony, what do we do?"

Tony took a deep breath, trying to keep control of his own mind. "Let him go, Steve."

"What?!" Steve froze, as if the words hit him in the chest like a punch.

"We’re going to have to turn ourselves in," Tony said, his gaze fixed on Steve’s, as if trying to communicate something without words. "But Peter can’t be with you. If they see you holding him like this, they’ll understand everything wrong. You know what that means."

"Don’t ask me to do this, Tony." Steve’s voice broke, pleading. "Not this. Please."

Tony moved closer, holding his face with both hands, forcing him to look at him. "Trust me," he said, his voice faltering, but full of something that sounded like a promise. "I’ll fix this."

Outside, the pounding on the door grew more aggressive. "Open up or we’re coming in!"

"We’re coming!" Tony shouted.

Steve was still holding Peter, as if his body simply refused to obey. But then, with every trembling muscle resisting, he started to let him go, his fingers loosening from the boy’s shirt as if he were giving up a part of himself.

"No, no, Dad! I’m sorry!" Peter pleaded, clutching his arm. "Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!"

Tony pulled Peter into his arms, cupping his head and pressing a long, trembling kiss into his hair. "Dad will fix this, love."

Steve sobbed, his hands shaking as he held his son’s face one last time. "I love you, Peter." He swallowed hard, as if the words were painful to say. "Be good for Dad and stay here."

"No, please! Don’t leave me here!"

The front door was smashed open with a bang, the sound of heavy boots echoing across the floor.

"On the ground! Now!" one of the officers shouted, their gun pointed directly at Tony.

Tony raised his hands slowly. "Calm down, it doesn’t have to be like this."

"ON THE GROUND!"

"Steve," Tony called, slowly lowering himself to obey.

Steve held Peter tightly, his lips pressing quick, frantic kisses on the boy’s face as he whispered through sobs: "I’ll come for you, sweetie. It’ll be okay. I promise. I promise."

"Let go of the kid and get on the ground!" Another officer ordered, moving closer cautiously.

Steve hesitated. "It’s okay, don’t shoot!" he begged.

"Get on the ground now!"

"Let go, Peter," Tony said, his voice laden with an unbearable weight.

"No, don’t let me go!" Peter screamed, digging his fingers into Steve’s shirt.

Steve closed his eyes as if the pain of letting go was greater than anything else. "It’s okay," he whispered one more time.

And then hands yanked him away with force.

Peter screamed, watching his father being thrown to the ground, his knees slamming against the floor with a sharp thud. The boy tried to run to him, but strong hands held him back, pulling him away.

"Dad!" Peter struggled, tears blurring his vision. "Let him go!"

He was dragged outside, his vision hazy from the tears as he watched his parents being taken away. Steve was still fighting, shouting, struggling against the three officers trying to hold him down. But Tony... Tony didn't.

He just watched.

His gaze moved from one officer to the next, as if memorizing each face, each detail. And then he found Peter's.

And in that moment, Peter felt fear.

Not just for what was happening.

But for what Tony would do next.

 

 

Chapter 9

Prologue: Now

"I won’t say anything without my lawyer."

The girl’s voice sounded firm, but there was an underlying nervousness that didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha Romanoff. She furrowed her brow slightly, closing the door behind her and walking into the room with silent steps. The teenager in front of her kept a hardened expression, but her restless fingers told another story. Short, bruised nails betrayed the anxiety she was trying to hide beneath a coat of indifference.

Natasha gently dragged the chair, sitting down without haste. She placed a file on the table, her fingers tapping lightly on the cover for a brief moment before she finally spoke.

"Michelle Jones, right?"

The girl remained silent.

"You’re not in trouble, Michelle." Natasha slightly tilted her head, maintaining eye contact. Her tone was calm, without force. "We’re on the same side here."

For a moment, all that could be heard was the faint hum of the air conditioning. Natasha waited patiently. Then, finally, the girl murmured distractedly, her fingers now rhythmically tapping on the table.

"It’s MJ…"

"MJ." Natasha nodded, noting the detail.

"Is Peter okay?"

The question came hesitantly but laden with genuine concern. Natasha noticed how the girl’s shoulders slightly hunched, as if she was preparing for the worst.

"We had to medicate him to calm him down, but he’s fine now."  She gave the information carefully, knowing that she needed to give something in exchange for something else. "MJ, I need you to tell me everything you know. This could help Peter, okay?"

MJ hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and gave a slight nod.

"Okay."

"You called May Parker. What did you talk about?"

The girl bit her lower lip, her eyes suddenly welling up. Her voice came out shaky.

"I was worried… We found all that out, and suddenly, he was gone. Then I found out they grabbed him at school, and I..." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep it together. "I didn’t know what to do. I was so sure, and then, I..."

"It’s okay." Natasha’s voice was a thread of gentleness in the cold atmosphere of the interrogation room.

MJ shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.

"Things could’ve gone really wrong. I see that now."

"But they didn’t." Natasha countered firmly. "And you helped bring Peter back safely."

The girl lifted her gaze, her eyes wide, full of questions she seemed afraid to ask. But in the end, the doubt slipped out in a hesitant whisper.

"So it’s true? They really...?"

Natasha didn’t answer directly.

"We’re not sure yet."

But the absence of a denial said enough.

MJ sniffed, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her jacket. Natasha waited, allowing her to compose herself before continuing.

"How did you get May’s contact?"

"It was on the missing children website." Guilt showed in her tone. "I... pretended to interview her to find out more about the disappearance. And then, when everything happened, I didn’t know what to do... I called her again."

Natasha nodded, understanding.

"What did you two talk about?"

"I told her Peter was in danger."

"And then you gave her the address?"

The girl nodded.

"How did you know where they lived?"

"We worked together on a project..."

"Do you remember when?"

"Yesterday." The urgency returned to her voice. "We found that photo, and then everything happened so fast..."

Natasha took in the information and changed tactics.

"How did Steve and Tony behave when you were there?"

"It was just Steve. I think Tony was working... I don’t really remember."

"It’s okay."

MJ hesitated, then furrowed her brow, trying to find the right words.

"He was polite and treated Peter well, but... it was strange."

"What do you mean?"

"He was always around, you know? Always watching. I can’t explain it, it just... gave me chills."

Her frustration at not being able to express the discomfort she felt was almost tangible. Natasha, however, understood perfectly.

^

"And then there was that time Peter asked for a pet cat, and Tony said he hated cats. And I should have suspected, because, seriously, who doesn’t like cats? Unless they’re allergic, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who has dumb allergies like that—"

"Ned." Natasha interrupted, part amused, part shocked at how the boy could speak without taking a breath. "How long have you known Peter?"

"Uh... almost two years.

— Have you ever seen him hurt?

Ned quickly shook his head. Then he stopped. Furrowed his brow. Opened his mouth, hesitated, and then muttered:

— Once. He always made faces when he sat down. I asked him what it was, and he said Tony punished him for opening the car door while it was still parked.

Natasha felt her stomach churn.

— And what did you say?

— Nothing. — Ned shrugged, looking uncomfortable. — He didn’t seem to think getting spanked at that age was strange. I thought every family had their own way of raising kids, you know? My grandma threatens to put hot sauce on my tongue if I curse.

Natasha made some notes, trying to push aside the disturbing possibilities forming in her mind.

^

May Parker tossed the disposable cup into the trash, unsure if it was the sixth or seventh coffee she’d had. It didn’t matter. The bitter taste still lingered in her mouth, the caffeine didn’t help, and the pounding headache only got worse. Her empty stomach protested, but eating was out of the question.

Her fingers glided over her phone. No messages from Ben. No calls. As a police captain, he was probably involved in the investigation. Or maybe, because it was his nephew, they’d keep him away?

His nephew.

The thought still seemed unreal. Everything happened so quickly that it felt like she was trapped in a dream that was about to collapse.

"May?"

The voice pulled her back. She turned and saw a woman standing in front of her. Tall, elegant, self-assured. She carried a bulky folder in her arms and offered a professional, friendly smile.

May tried to return it, but her muscles didn’t obey.

"I’m Natasha Romanoff. I’m in charge of Peter’s case. Can you come with me?"

She followed Natasha down the cold, lifeless hallway of the infirmary, their footsteps echoing off the sterile floor. They stopped in front of a closed door. In the center, a small window revealed the figure of a teenager curled up on the bed, his back to them.

"This is Peter." Natasha’s voice was soft, but firm. "We got a court order for the DNA test. By the end of the day, we’ll have confirmation."

May merely nodded, unable to speak.

Natasha opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper, handing it to her.

"We found this photo in the house where he was."

May lowered her gaze. As soon as her eyes landed on the image, the air left her lungs.

Two smiling men were holding a child. He looked older than when he disappeared, but the hair, the eyes, the nose... everything about him was unmistakable.

Peter.

Her hand trembled as it rose to her mouth, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape.

God.

He was right there.

"Would you like to meet him?"

^

Peter sniffed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He just wanted to sleep. Forget. Pretend the last few hours — or were they days? — never happened. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate.

The doctors had forced some medicine on him that, finally, silenced his screams and sobs. Now, everything felt distant, foggy, as if he were floating in a space between wakefulness and oblivion. It should have been good. But it wasn’t. The feeling of helplessness curled around his stomach, a familiar squeeze he knew all too well.

He couldn’t sleep.

Instead, he imagines.

Imagining was easier than facing the truth.

He pretends his parents are there. That they’re hugging him, whispering comforting words into his hair, assuring him everything will be fine, that they’re taking care of him. He’s not naive—deep down, he knows the gravity of the situation. But he needed comfort so badly it hurt.

Steve, with his broad chest and strong arms holding him like he could protect him from everything.

Tony, with his stubbled beard, hoarse voice, and that smell that was a mix of sophistication and brutality, something both comforting and overwhelming.

He clung to those memories, as if he could find a piece of home in them. But the emptiness inside him only grew.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, thrash about, tear his skin off, anything that would make him escape the confusion consuming his mind. But he did none of that. He just lay there. Still. Pretending none of it was real.

What were they doing now?

Were they thinking of him? Planning what to say when they were finally together again?

"Peter?"

He blinked, his eyes stinging.

At first, it took a second to recognize the woman in front of him. He’d seen her a few times, always from a distance, always watching. But this was the first time she spoke to him. Or at least, the first time he was lucid enough to notice.

"Yes?" His voice came out rough, scraping his throat like broken glass.

The woman approached cautiously. Smooth, deliberate movements. As if he were a skittish animal, ready to run at the slightest sign of threat.

As if he were... fragile.

But he wasn’t.

He was normal.

Wasn’t he?

"We need to talk, Peter."

She pulled a chair closer to the bed, sitting down slowly. Peter watched without really reacting. He didn’t try to move, didn’t try to sit up. The medicine still weighed on his limbs, leaving him slow, numb, like his own body didn’t belong to him.

"How are you feeling?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Kidnapped."

Natasha raised an eyebrow slightly but didn’t interrupt him.

"Ironic, considering I just got rescued, don’t you think?"

The sarcasm slid off his tongue effortlessly, an automatic shield he didn’t even have to raise. It sounded like something Tony would say.

For a moment, Natasha said nothing. She just watched. Evaluated.

"I understand this is a lot to deal with." Her voice was calm, unhurried. "But I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m on your side, and I’ll be here throughout the investigation."

Peter felt something break inside him.

"And after?" His voice trembled, and he hated it.  "What happens to me? What... what happens to them?"

Natasha’s eyes softened, but he noticed the hesitation before she spoke.

"May Parker is here, Peter."

He blinked, taking a second to understand.

Right.

May Parker.

Because Peter Parker was kidnapped. Because he had people looking for him.

The thought made his stomach churn.

He didn’t want to think about that kid. About that Peter Parker who disappeared years ago. He didn’t want to remember that this was actually his story. That there were people missing him. That he had a mom, a dad... maybe even a dog.

Just the suggestion of that thought carried with it an overwhelming weight.

Because if he accepted that — if he accepted that he had a life before Steve and Tony — then he had to accept what May Parker had said.

That the kidnappers might have been responsible for the deaths of Mary and Richard Parker.

His chest tightened, and his heart raced.

He couldn’t think about it.

Because then... what would that do to the image he had of Tony and Steve? What would it turn them into?

"She’d like to see you." Natasha’s voice came softly, cutting through his spiral of thoughts. "Is that okay?"

No, it wasn’t okay.

He felt like a zoo attraction. A broken piece being analyzed under a magnifying glass.

But he also wanted... something.

Someone.

He desperately wanted to be cared for.

When he realized it, he had already nodded.

Natasha observed him for a moment, maybe waiting for him to change his mind. But he didn’t. Then, she stood up and left.

When she returned, someone was with her.

May.

She paused at the door, hesitant, as if afraid to move too fast and scare him off. Her face was flushed, her eyes swollen from crying. But despite that, she smiled.

It was a small, shaky smile... but genuine.

She knelt down carefully in front of him, as if he were something precious. Something she didn’t want to frighten or break.

Peter didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

Should he say something? Should he feel something?

His chest was a mess. Part of him wanted to escape — get out of that bed, out of that room, out of this new reality being shoved on top of him. But another part wanted...

He didn’t know.

"Hi, Peter." May’s voice was soft, but laden with something he couldn’t name.

He opened his mouth to respond but hesitated.

Peter.

That name seemed stranger than it should.

"I..." The word came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat, looking away. He felt small, exposed. As if he were being seen for the first time.

May seemed to notice.

"It’s okay." She said quickly. "You don’t have to say anything."

She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatened to spill over again.

"I just wanted to see you."

Peter pressed his fingers against the blanket. He wanted to ask what she saw. What she saw when she looked at him.

Because, for him, his reflection in the mirror had always been shaped by Steve and Tony. They shaped who he was, what he thought, what he believed.

If this wasn’t real... then who was he?

The silence dragged on for a moment until May sighed.

"We never stopped looking for you."

He froze.

She was telling the truth. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in the way her voice faltered at the end of the sentence.

For years, someone had been looking for him.

And he... he never knew.

Never knew there was something on the other side of life that knew.

"You..."He started, but his voice failed. He cleared his throat. "Are you sure?"

May furrowed her brow.

"What?"

"That it’s me."

The question hung in the air, laden with something he couldn’t name.

He regretted asking it as soon as he did.

He wanted her to say no.

Because if she said yes... then everything he knew, everything he was, was just a well-told lie.

May blinked, surprised, but her answer came without hesitation:

"You’re my nephew, Peter." Her voice trembled, but didn’t falter. "And I’ll take care of you."

Peter felt something tighten in his chest. A thick, suffocating knot that didn’t loosen, even as hot tears slid down his face.

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to say that it didn’t change anything.

But he didn’t say anything.

Because, deep down, he knew he needed to hold on to something.

He’d already lost everything.

So, even though May wasn’t them, even though her voice wasn’t the one he used to hear before bed, even though her hug wasn’t familiar...

It was all that was left.

And he needed it.

He closed his eyes and let her hold him in her arms.

Notes:

This chapter is a bit short, just to introduce a new phase of the story: We've had "Before", "After", and now we've entering "Now". The chapters in Now will be intense and, at times, very violent, so if you're not comfortable with heavy stories, please be aware this is the direction the story will take.

Chapter 10

Now

May and Ben Parker are good people. He knows that. But deep down, he hates their very existence. And he hates the fact that he hates them. He hates the way May cooks, the way she tries to be kind all the time, how her voice is always excessively warm. He hates their house, his new bed, hates Ben for that constant look of pity. He hates everything. And he hates himself for feeling this way.

When the DNA test confirmed that he was, in fact, Peter Parker, his life was ripped away from everything he knew, without a chance to protest. Natasha gave him two options: stay with May and Ben or be sent to a group home. He thought about saying that neither of those options meant a real home, but the words got stuck in his throat. He was exhausted. A weariness that didn’t come from his body, but from something deeper, as if the weight of the entire world was pressing down on him. In the end, he chose May and Ben because he needed a place to close his eyes and forget, if only for a moment.

Everything happened too fast. He wasn’t allowed to go back to his house — or the place where he had spent his entire life. Natasha assured him they would provide whatever he needed, but none of it mattered. In an instant, he was in Queens, surrounded by unfamiliar streets and a discomfort that settled under his skin. The Parkers’ apartment was small, organized with a domestic care that showed in every detail: patterned cushions, artificial flowers, a kitten-shaped rug at the entrance. A space carefully designed to be a home. But it wasn’t his.

When May opened the bedroom door, she smiled, trying to disguise the faint smell of dust that rose into the air.

"And this is your room!" she announced cheerfully, waving a hand in front of her face. "I’ll clean it up, and it’ll be as good as new, you’ll see!"

Peter stepped inside, dropping his backpack on the floor. Inside, there were only a few clothes, hygiene items, his phone, and Karen — his favorite childhood toy. Natasha had agreed to get it for him. At first, it was just a precaution to keep it from getting lost in the middle of the investigation, but now, holding it between his fingers brought a strange kind of comfort.

The room was simple. A window overlooking the constant traffic of Queens, a narrow bed that didn’t look very sturdy, and an old dresser. He felt a slight discomfort upon noticing a dark stain on the ceiling of the adjacent bathroom.

"We usually use this room for guests, but we don’t get many," May explained, leaning against the doorframe. "Ben sleeps here sometimes, when he annoys me, and I need some space." She laughed to herself, a brief and hesitant sound. Then, she turned back to Peter with a gentle look. "You can decorate it however you want. We could paint the walls... blue, maybe? Put up some pictures. What do you like?"

He likes a lot of things. Or he used to. Now, none of them seem to matter. He just shrugged.

May hesitated. Then, she stepped closer carefully and placed a light hand on his shoulder.

"Can I... can I hug you?"

Peter didn’t answer. He just tensed slightly and let her wrap her arms around him. Being held was...

Good.

For a moment, everything disappeared. There were no unfamiliar names, no strange faces, no blurred memories. Just the warmth around him, May’s breathing, and the steady sound of her heartbeat.

"It won’t be easy," she murmured, gently stroking his hair. "But we’ll figure it out together, Peter. I promise."

He believed her. Or he wanted to.

Peter supposes he’s good at getting used to strangers, after all.

^

Natasha shows up often. She asks questions, a lot of them, as if she’s peeling back every layer of his mind to figure out who he is. In return, he takes the chance to ask about his parents, but her answers are always vague. One day, she tells him he needs to move on. That maybe a therapist would help. He doesn’t speak for a week after that.

The days become a blur. He spends most of his time lying down while May brings him food and tells him when it’s time to shower or use the bathroom. Even that feels like an effort. Even breathing feels like an effort. At some point, he realizes he feels… dead. And, with a pang of guilt, he realizes that maybe he’d rather be.

Then, one day, his full bladder forces him to move. He drags himself out of bed, his muscles stiff from inactivity, and heads to the bathroom on autopilot. When he’s done, he’s heading back to his room when he hears whispered voices in the hallway.

He stops.

And listens.

"I’m worried about him," May says, her voice low. "I know this behavior is expected, but should we really just… sit and watch him waste away like this? Maybe… Maybe we should move? I feel like he doesn’t like it here."

"We can’t afford to move right now, honey, you know that." Ben sighs. "Besides, I doubt anything we could offer would be enough. He was used to an expensive lifestyle, and it’s obvious it’ll take time for him to settle here."

He’s not lying. Peter never thought of himself as snobbish, but now that he’s been ripped away from the world he knew, the differences are impossible to ignore. The sheets are rough against his skin, his new clothes always feel a little too big or a little too small, the house is too compact, and the furniture shows signs of age. Small details, but each one a cruel reminder that he’s not where he’s supposed to be.

"He’s a good kid." May defends him firmly, though Ben clearly didn’t mean it as an insult.

Guilt rises hot in Peter’s throat. This isn’t their fault. None of it. They shouldn’t have to deal with a stranger in their home — let alone one who’s broken, sinking into something dangerously close to depression, just existing there like a weight. But they try. They try in a way he can’t seem to return.

It’s not fair.

None of this is fair.

He clenches his fists, a wave of anger burning in his chest. Not at May and Ben, but at the people who put him here. His parents. No — not his parents. Steve and Tony. He needs to get used to that soon.

He takes a deep breath, trying to push down the fury before it consumes him, and takes hesitant steps toward the living room.

May and Ben are on the couch. She’s holding a pillow against her chest, her eyes wet as if she’s on the verge of tears. Ben has his elbows on his knees, head down, his face heavy with worry. He always looks like that. Always worried.

Peter clears his throat. "H-Hey."

May’s head snaps up, surprised, and she shifts on the couch a little too quickly. "Hey, Peter. Do you need anything?" There’s a clear effort to keep her voice casual, like she’s walking on eggshells.

"I just…" He drags his socked foot against the floor, uncertain. "I was thinking maybe we could watch a movie?"

The relief on May’s face is so obvious it almost makes him flinch.

"Y-Yeah, we have lots of movies here, right, Ben?"

Ben gives a small smile, nodding. "We can watch while we have dinner. Food’s almost ready. Come here."

He gets up and walks over to the dresser, crouching down with a quiet creak of his knee. Peter watches in silence as he opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a box full of DVDs. Ben holds it out to him.

"Pick one, kid."

Peter steps closer slowly, sitting down beside him. He sifts through the titles, his lips pressing together slightly as he sees the collection — most of them are old, and honestly, they look bad.

Ben lets out a low chuckle when he notices his expression.

"This one’s a classic." He lifts one of the DVDs, excited. "One of the best war movies of all time. I promise."

Peter stares at the cover and responds automatically: "Oh, my dad doesn’t let me watch that, it’s too-"

He freezes.

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. He feels the weight of his mistake the second he looks up and finds Ben watching him. There’s no judgment there. Just pity.

Peter looks away quickly. "Sorry."

"You can talk about them, kid."

Ben’s voice is low, almost gentle, but Peter still feels something tighten in his chest.

"Ben!" May whispers, warningly.

Ben ignores her. "They didn’t let you watch war movies?"

Peter shakes his head, his fingers picking at the edge of the box in his lap. Suddenly, it seems a lot more interesting than anything else in the room. — Steve didn’t let me watch movies with too much violence. Or blood. Or… you know, that kind of stuff.

Ben lets out a short sigh, glancing at the movie cover still in his hand. "Yeah, well, he was probably right. If anything, this ‘rated 16 and up’ here should tell us something." He jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Peter lets out a faint laugh, barely audible, but it’s enough to ease some of the tension in the air.

"Well, we can rent some movies tomorrow, now that we know what you like. Any suggestions?"

"I like Star Wars."

Ben pats his shoulder. "Good choice. Come on, let’s help your aunt set the table."

As they set out plates and glasses, May pulls a steaming dish from the oven and places it in the center of the table. Spaghetti Bolognese, covered in a generous layer of melted cheese. The smell hits him instantly, stirring a memory so vivid it’s painful. Steve cooking the same dish because he knew Tony had a soft spot for his mother’s Italian recipes.

Peter swallows hard, pushing the thought away.

"This is delicious, honey." Ben comments between bites. He chews loudly, and Peter has to hold back a smile at the thought of how much that would have annoyed Steve.

He lifts his fork to his mouth. The sauce is obviously store-bought, the meatballs are overcooked, and the pasta is a little softer than it should be. But still, he says:

"It’s good."

May lights up like a Christmas tree, and for a moment, Peter allows himself to relax.

^

The next day, Natasha showed up with news he wished he had never heard. Next month, he would have to appear in court. She explained that there would be questions — both from her and from the lawyer defending Steve and Tony. And they would be there. The news hit him like a crushing weight. It wasn’t just the thought of testifying against the men who had raised him, but the fact that he would have to face them. Face to face.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He didn’t respond. Natasha went on, mentioning therapists, support, options to help him deal with what she called a "difficult time." The words echoed in Peter’s head, a pathetic understatement for what his life had become. A difficult time . He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

Her words felt like distant noise, muffled by the rising tide of panic inside him. As soon as she left, he went back to his room and buried himself under the blankets.

The days dragged by in a haze. He barely left his bed, hardly ate. The weight of what was coming crushed him, but part of him still clung to the absurd hope that if he just waited long enough, someone would knock on the door and tell him it had all been a mistake.

His phone remained untouched on the nightstand beside him, a silent reminder of everything he was avoiding. He couldn’t bring himself to call. He didn’t want to see the messages from Ned, from MJ — from anyone who might have heard about him.

May said they had called. More than once. But Peter never asked for details, never wanted to know what they had said. The phone was right there, within his reach, yet it felt like an insurmountable distance.

But what terrified him the most was the doubt that ate away at him day after day: Had his parents tried to reach out?

^

The sun rose and set while Peter remained lying down, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t know exactly how many days had gone by, but the emptiness inside him only deepened. It was as if he were floating in an existence without purpose, trapped between a past he couldn’t have and a present that didn’t feel like his.

May, hesitant, sometimes asked him for small favors, especially after Ben went back to work. But most of the time, she seemed afraid to make any sudden movements, as if he were a ticking time bomb ready to explode. She left food for him without insisting that he eat, left the door slightly ajar as a silent invitation for him to step out of the room. He rarely accepted.

Ben was different. He had a firmer approach. When he was home, he found ways to keep Peter occupied — movies, games, cooking together. And unlike May, he didn’t back down when Peter mentioned Steve or Tony by accident. He didn’t change the subject, didn’t walk on eggshells. He just listened.

Maybe that was why, without realizing it, Peter started sharing small things about them. That Tony collected colorful glasses. That Steve hated sleeping alone and, whenever Tony had to leave on a late-night trip, he would pick him up while he slept and take him to bed with him. Or that one time Steve had said something so funny — though Peter couldn’t quite remember what — that it made Tony spit his drink out through his nose.

It felt good to talk about them. To show that they weren’t monsters.

Not the way everyone thought.

And maybe… not the way he was beginning to fear they were.

^

It was Friday, and the scent of fabric softener still lingered in the air as Peter helped May fold the freshly washed clothes. The quiet moment was interrupted when Ben entered the living room carrying two bags full of snacks — gummy candies, sodas, chips, and chocolate bars. May raised an eyebrow, clearly scandalized by the absurd amount of sugar, but when she saw Peter’s eyes light up with excitement, she let out a resigned sigh and said nothing. After everything, he deserved a little happiness.

Peter took charge of spreading blankets and pillows across the couch while Ben searched for the movie on the TV. When the movie started, the room was bathed in a comfortable dimness, illuminated only by the colorful glow of the screen and the faint light from the hallway. At first, Peter kept a safe distance, sitting at the edge of the couch, but as the minutes passed and his muscles relaxed, he let himself lean against Ben, his body finding support against the man’s broad chest. The warmth was comforting, familiar in a strange way. For a moment, he wondered if he should pull away, but then he felt Ben’s fingers gently combing through his hair, an absentminded gesture of affection.

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know how to react. He wanted to move away, but at the same time… he didn’t. He stayed still, pretending not to notice, and then looked up.

Ben was already watching him, his eyes carrying something Peter couldn’t fully decipher. There was sadness there, but also something more.

"Do you want me to leave?" he whispered, even though he knew May had been asleep for at least twenty minutes.

Ben shook his head but didn’t look away. He took a deep breath, blinking rapidly, as if holding back stubborn tears.

"I’m sorry."

Peter swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to say… something, but before he could form the words, the doorbell rang.

The abrupt sound made May jolt awake, her eyes wide and confused as she scanned the room. Peter remained on the couch while Ben went to answer it, his breathing quickening for no apparent reason.

He couldn’t see who it was, but when the door was cracked open, the voice… oh, that voice…

"I wasn’t expecting you today," Ben said, his tone surprised and cautious.

"Yeah, I know. But I couldn’t wait any longer, Ben."

Peter froze. The air around him felt heavy, too thick to breathe properly. He knew that voice. He knew that voice.

Ben fully opened the door, and there he was.

Rhodey.

Time seemed to slow. Peter’s chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. His wide eyes fixed on the man standing at the door, as if his brain refused to believe what he was seeing. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep in Ben’s arms, and now his mind was playing a cruel trick on him?

"Good evening, ma’am," Rhodey greeted May, polite yet firm. "My name is James Rhodes, and I’m here to see Peter."

May stepped forward, placing herself between Peter and the door, her chin lifted, her gaze as sharp as steel.

"And who exactly are you?"

"I’m his uncle."

She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound: "You should leave before I call the police."

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, as if he had expected this reaction. He nodded toward Ben: "Isn’t the police already here?"

"May, let me explain…" Ben started, hesitant.

"Close that door, Ben."

The sound escaped Peter’s throat before he could stop it. It was soft, a fragile noise, but everyone heard it. And suddenly, all eyes were on him.

He didn’t want Rhodey to leave. God, he wanted to cling to whatever was left of his past. He wanted to run to him, hold onto him, beg him to take him away. But at the same time, something inside him whispered that this wasn’t right.

"He was investigated." Ben’s voice was firm but not aggressive. "They went through everything; his calls, messages, bank records, any possible connection to the kidnapping. They found nothing."

"Good for him." May crossed her arms. "But that doesn’t explain why he’s here, Ben."

"I asked him to come."

May stared at him, incredulous: "What?"

"I just want to help," Rhodey interjected before the argument could escalate. He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture, casting a brief glance at Peter before turning back to May. "Ben told me he’s not adjusting well."

"That’s none of your business," she snapped.

Rhodey didn’t flinch. His gaze settled on Peter again, assessing him carefully. "I barely looked at my nephew, and I can already tell he’s not sleeping or eating properly."

May pressed her lips together. "He’s not your nephew."

"May." Ben let out an exasperated sigh. "Please, just listen to me."

She remained silent, but the look she gave him made it clear she wasn’t convinced.

"Peter has known James since he was a kid. He trusts him." Ben paused, choosing his words carefully. "He spent his entire life surrounded by the same people. And now, suddenly, everything changed. He needs something familiar. Someone he recognizes as safe. You might hate the idea, but you can’t ignore what’s best for him right now."

"He needs us," May said, her voice low.

"Yes," Ben agreed, gently. "But we’re not enough. And you know that."

Peter didn’t need to look to know her expression. He felt the tightness in his own chest, as if something invisible was pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words died when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhodey move.

He was looking directly at him.

And then, he opened his arms.

Peter didn’t think. His body moved on its own, closing the distance before he could reconsider. The next moment, he was buried in Rhodey’s chest, the man’s arms wrapping around him in a firm, steady hold. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, the tears burning as they fell, sobs tearing through his throat.

"Shh…" Rhodey murmured against his hair, his hands tracing slow, comforting circles on his back. "It’s going to be okay, kid. I’m here now."

The next few minutes were a blur of muffled voices, automatic movements, and an exhaustion that threatened to swallow Peter whole. At some point, Rhodey guided him to the bedroom, sitting him on the bed as if he were made of glass, ready to shatter. The bed creaked under the added weight when Rhodey sat beside him, but Peter barely registered the sound.

May appeared at the door, holding a glass of water. She handed it to his trembling hands, her gaze hardening as she turned to Rhodey.

"The door stays open." There was a warning in her voice. Then, it softened as she looked at Peter. "I’ll be right there, sweetheart. Scream if you need anything, and I’ll come running, okay?"

Peter nodded slowly, bringing the glass to his lips and taking long sips. The water helped soothe his dry throat, but it couldn’t wash away the bitter taste his life had taken on. May left, leaving him alone with Rhodey.

Silence stretched for a few moments.

"You need to eat, kid." Rhodey said, his voice low and gentle. He paused before adding, almost casually, "Your father won’t be happy when I tell him you’re not eating properly."

Peter’s chest tightened, the pain quickly dissolving into something much hotter, much more suffocating. Anger.

"He has no right to have an opinion on anything about my life."

Rhodey sighed, running a hand over his face. Then, he leaned in slightly, lifting Peter’s chin with his fingers. His dark eyes held his with firm intent.

"Hey. I’m upset too. And I can’t even begin to imagine how awful this must be for you, Pete. But don’t start being disrespectful to your parents now."

A shiver ran down Peter’s spine.

"They’re not my parents." His voice came out sharp but wavered at the end. "They took me from my family. I was just… just a toy to them."

"I know it feels that way right now."

"It doesn’t feel that way, it is!" Peter shot back, a tight knot forming in his chest. "You don’t understand-"

"I do, Pete." Rhodey interrupted, his voice steady but unhurried. "What they did was wrong. It was cruel. And I will never try to justify it." He paused, watching Peter. "But you know they loved you."

Something hot surged through Peter — anger, anguish, maybe both. He opened his mouth to argue, but the words got stuck in his throat.

Rhodey continued, his voice quieter. "I’m not saying it changes what they did. But you were loved. You know that."

Peter’s chest tightened. The memory of hands holding his, of laughter echoing through the house, of arms wrapping around him on cold nights… He wanted to erase it all, wanted it to be a lie. But it wasn’t.

He swallowed hard. "So What? You want me to forgive them?"

"It’s not about forgiveness." Rhodey replied without hesitation. "It’s about not letting this destroy you."

Peter lowered his head, gripping his own hands. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel.

A thought surfaced before he could stop it.

"Are… are they okay?" His voice was hesitant, barely audible.

Rhodey sighed. "Steve doesn’t talk to anyone. Tony tries to act like he’s fine, but he’s not." He hesitated. "They only talk about you, Pete."

Peter bit his lip. Part of him wanted to ignore that information, to pretend it didn’t hurt. But it did.

Rhodey reached out and covered his hand.

"You’re going to see a therapist."

Peter frowned and tried to pull his hand back, but Rhodey held firm. "I don’t want to."

"I’m not asking." He kept his grip, as if anchoring him to the present. "If you want to get better, you need to accept all of this and move forward, Peter."

^

His psychologist was a short, somewhat stocky man with a friendly expression. He introduced himself as Dr. Octavius but said Peter could call him Otto. His office was spacious, a little too fancy, making Peter wonder if he was a special case or if the government provided psychologists like this for everyone. There was a soft leather armchair, a bookshelf filled with elegantly bound books, and a large window overlooking a well-maintained garden. It didn’t exactly feel like a public facility.

Peter sat on the couch, feeling small in the midst of it all. Otto pulled up a chair and settled in front of him, crossing his legs with a relaxed air.

"So, Peter, how have you been?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Peter knew the honest answer but didn’t feel like saying it. He shrank back a little and shrugged.

"It’s been… strange."

Otto nodded, as if he had expected exactly that answer.

"Strange how?"

Peter took a deep breath. There were so many things wrong, so many conflicting thoughts piling up, but he didn’t know where to start. Instead, he focused on something simple.

"It’s like I’m dreaming. Like none of this is real."

Otto tilted his head slightly.

"And how do you know it is real?"

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the question.

"Because… because I’m here. I’m talking to you."

"But do you feel like you’re here? Or is it like watching from the outside?"

Peter frowned, uncomfortable. He didn’t know how to answer.

"I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting to wake up. Like any moment now, they’ll walk through that door and take me home."

Otto watched him closely, letting a silence settle between them before continuing.

"And what would you do if that happened?"

Peter opened his mouth but didn’t respond. Because, deep down, he didn’t know.

Otto leaned back in his chair, his voice low and calm.

"It’s normal to feel this way. Your world turned upside down. Everything you knew changed overnight."

Peter lowered his gaze, biting the inside of his cheek.

"But what if I don’t want it to have changed?"

Otto nodded, as if he had expected that too.

"That’s understandable. It’s hard to accept that something that was part of who you are just… changed. But ignoring it doesn’t make it go back to how it was. Does it?"

Peter slowly shook his head.

Otto gave a small smile, lacing his fingers together over his knee.

"Have you ever tried holding sand in your hands?"

Peter frowned.

"What?"

"If you close your hand too tightly, the sand slips through your fingers. But if you just let it rest there, without trying to grip it too hard, it stays."

Peter remained silent for a moment, absorbing that. Otto let him think before continuing.

"You’re trying to hold on to something that’s already slipped away. Maybe the first step is recognizing that your hand is still full of important things. Just in a different way."

Peter swallowed hard, not quite sure how to respond.

Otto, sensing his silence, decided to steer the conversation slightly.

"What have you been doing these past few days? Anything that helps you process all this?"

Peter let out a soft sigh.

"I… not much. I’ve been staying in my room. May and Ben try to include me in things, but I…"

"It feels wrong?"

Peter nodded slowly.

"Like I’m betraying someone."

Otto studied his expression.

"Steve and Tony?"

Peter swallowed, not answering. But Otto seemed to already know.

"You know, guilt is a powerful feeling. But it only has as much weight as you allow it. You don’t owe them your pain, Peter."

Peter pressed his lips together, looking away.

Otto observed him for another moment, then shifted his tone.

"Have you spoken to your friends?"

Peter hesitated.

"I… haven’t checked my phone since all of this happened."

Otto raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Why not?"

Peter averted his eyes. He didn’t want to face that question.

"I don’t know. I just… don’t want to."

Otto was silent for a moment, watching him thoughtfully. Then he leaned forward slightly.

"You know, Peter, when we avoid something like this, it’s often because, in some way, we still hope things will go back to how they were. That if we don’t look, we won’t have to face what’s changed."

Peter gripped his knees, a deep discomfort settling in at those words. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was true. If he looked at his phone, he’d find messages he couldn’t answer, conversations that couldn’t continue the way they had before. And that would make everything feel even more real.

"What do you think you’d find on your phone if you checked it now?"

Peter thought about the question. Messages from Ned and MJ, maybe May trying to reach out, possibly something from Ben… but Steve? Tony? He hesitated before replying.

"People expecting something from me. Questions I don’t want to answer."

"Like what?"

Peter ran a hand over his face.

"Like if I’m okay. What I’m going to do now. What really happened."

Otto watched him closely.

"And do you have answers to those questions?"

Peter let out a short, bitter laugh.

"If I did, maybe I’d be handling this better."

Otto smiled slightly, understanding.

"You don’t need to have all the answers right now. But maybe you need to ask yourself some questions. What do you really want? What do you miss? And what’s stopping you from moving forward?"

Peter couldn’t answer right away. There were too many responses inside him, all conflicting. But Otto didn’t seem to rush him.

"I want..." Peter started, but the sentence died in his throat. He tightened his fingers around the hem of his sweatshirt, trying to give shape to what he was feeling. But deep down, he knew what he wanted was impossible.

Otto waited patiently, not pressuring him. When Peter couldn’t continue, the psychologist spoke with the same calm as always:

"You want them."

Peter closed his eyes for a moment before nodding, curling into the chair as if he wanted to disappear into himself.

"That’s understandable, Peter. You’ve spent your whole life believing they were your only family. There’s nothing wrong with missing them, even knowing what they did."

Peter averted his gaze, uncomfortable. He didn’t like admitting this out loud. It made it seem like he was betraying May and Ben, or even himself.

"And what about the trial?" Otto continued, in a neutral tone, without judgment. "How do you feel about that? What do you expect from that meeting?"

Peter let out a short laugh, devoid of humor.

"An apology, maybe?" He shook his head. "But I guess I know it’s not going to happen."

Otto tilted his head, studying him.

"What if it did happen? What if Steve and Tony apologized?"

Peter bit his lip. He’d never really thought about it. The idea seemed surreal, almost ridiculous. But at the same time…

"I don’t know" he admitted, running a hand over his face. "Sometimes I hate them. My life is upside down, and it’s all their fault. But at the same time..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "When I think about the day I’ll see them again... I feel relief. Like something heavy is going to be lifted off me."

Otto didn’t respond immediately, just observed.

"Relief because it will be the end of a cycle? Or because, in some way, you still hope they’ll be your safe haven?"

He wanted to say it was the first option, but he couldn’t deny that, deep down, there was a part of him that had never learned how to exist without them.

"I don’t know" he repeated, in a whisper.

Otto nodded.

"Then maybe that’s a good starting point."

 

Chapter 11

Now

Steve was already seated when the psychologist walked in. Not in the corner of the cell, nor lying on the floor like in the early days. He was on the bed — hands folded over his knees, beard unshaven, hair a bit longer, but gaze steady. Anyone unaware of the situation might’ve thought he was simply bored.

Dr. Miller entered with calm steps, clipboard in one hand, a travel mug in the other.

"I brought coffee today" he announced with a half-smile.  "For me, of course. But if you want some, I can ask for another."

Steve returned the smile, humorless.

"You think if I accept the coffee, it means I’m opening up to therapy?"

"I think if you accept the coffee, it means you like coffee." Miller sat down. For a few seconds, the only sound was the quiet sip from his cup. "Sleep any better?"

Steve didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on some random spot on the wall, as if trying to recall something.

"Do you have kids?" he asked suddenly.

Dr. Miller raised an eyebrow, but replied:

"One daughter. Architect. Thirty-two."

Steve glanced at him sideways.

"Do you remember her smell when she was a baby?"

The psychologist hesitated, caught off guard by the question.

"Maybe if I smelled it again, I’d recognize it. But now? No. Why?"

Steve didn’t reply right away. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing a precious memory.

"I remember his smell when he was a baby. The sound he made with his mouth when he got bored. His hair wet after a bath, the way he wrinkled his nose when there was foam on his face." He paused. "There’s not a single day I don’t carry that with me."

Dr. Miller didn’t take notes. He just watched.

"You miss that time."

"No." Steve corrected, firmly.  "I want it. I want to bring it all back."

"You know he’s safe now, right?"

"Safe." Steve let out a short, mirthless laugh. "He’s probably learning how to take the bus, eating processed food, listening to adults tell him who he’s supposed to be."

Dr. Miller shifted slightly in his chair.

"Do you think what you feel for him is really love?"

Steve looked straight at him.

"I know him like no one else. I know when he’s lying, when he’s hungry, tired, sad. I am his home. His comfort. And I didn’t have to demand anything from him. I didn’t have to ask for love. He gave it freely. And I gave everything in return."

"But you took away his chance to experience other ways of living."

"Other ways of hurting, you mean." Steve replied, his tone unchanged. "Tell me, Doctor… are you happy?"

Dr. Miller took a deep breath.

"Generally, yes."

"You work more than you’d like. Sit in traffic. Worry about bills, safety, your daughter. You live a cramped life and call that freedom." Steve gave a faint, crooked smile. "Peter didn’t need any of that. He was truly free. Nothing weighed on him. No future. No failure. No expectation."

"He was a child."

"Exactly. And he should’ve stayed one."

Dr. Miller leaned in slightly, intrigued.

"You think growing up is a mistake?"

"I think it’s a trap." Steve replied. "Growing up means becoming a cog in the machine. Learning to accept. To give up. No one is born wanting to sit eight hours a day behind a desk. We surrender to it. Out of fear. Out of need. I took that from him."

"And what if he had wanted to be something more? Dreamed of another life?"

Steve let out a low laugh, humorless. "I would’ve taken that away from him too."

^

Anthony Stark had always known that power was a matter of perspective. To many, he was a genius. To others, a monster. But he knew the truth: he was just a man with more resources than he should’ve had, and fewer scruples than anyone would ever dare say out loud.

Howard Stark’s money was just the beginning. His real legacy wasn’t in the millions, but in the doors that money kicked open: political influence, bought respect, alliances sealed with smiles and threats. Howard believed in limits. Tony built bridges over all of them.

When he took over the empire, he found a broken structure — outdated, drowning in filthy and amateur business. Drug trafficking, organ deals, improvised weapons — all loud, dirty, inefficient. Tony didn’t see an empire. He saw a chessboard. He cleaned it up, reorganized, and raised the stakes. Turned technology into a weapon — literally. Sold to governments, militias, terrorists, and presidents. Built an empire of invisible but undeniable power. He became more than a name. He became necessary.

And he believed — out of arrogance or naivety — that he would never fall.

Years of work. Code. Trusted people. Well-placed blackmail. All unraveled by a damn school project. An amateur investigation. Innocent curiosity.

Peter.

The name pulses in his mind like poison. He wants to be angry at the kid. Truly. But he can’t. Peter was too smart for his own good. Brilliant, stubborn, curious. And because of that, Tony felt... almost proud.

Of course it had to be his son who figured it all out.

He never felt guilty about the kidnapping. He had killed, tortured, destroyed lives with the same precision he used to dismantle weapons. Taking a child and raising him as his own... barely scratched the surface of what he was capable of.

At the time, it all felt simple. Steve wanted the boy. Tony wanted Steve. Period.

But then Peter happened. And without asking, he slipped in. Slowly, silently, until he filled every crack in Tony’s heart. The first time he held him, something inside shattered — and at the same time, clicked into place. It was like he’d finally found a part he hadn’t known was missing.

He loved that boy. In a twisted, possessive way — too strange to name. He wanted him happy, yes. But happiness came with freedom. And freedom, in the end, tore him away.

Now, all that’s left is the emptiness. And the fantasies.

He imagines bringing Peter back, but not to what they were before. Tony would take him to a forgotten basement — no windows, no internet, no one else. Just the three of them: him, Steve, and Peter. A family.

He would take care of the boy. Give him books, toys — maybe even a cat, if he behaved. All Peter would have to give in return was... Well, himself.

But the daydreams crack when he thinks of the Parkers. Ben and May — two mistakes that should’ve been erased along with Richard and Mary. If they were dead, Peter would have nothing to hold on to. He’d be lost. And lost, he’d come home.

Tony feels the rage rise like acid. His fists clench. Jaw tightens.

He imagines their end in detail. Ben first. He’d cut out his tongue, slowly, until there was nothing left but a bloody hole. He’d make May watch. Force her eyes wide open while he sawed through her husband’s bones with a dull blade, listening to the cracks and the wet sound of tearing flesh. He wanted her to vomit. To shake.

Then, her. He’d drive his thumbs into her eyes, wait for the pop. Leave her blind. Then, with care, strip her skin in thin ribbons, draining every scream from her throat before the final stab to the heart.

"Tony?"

The voice pulls him from the darkness. He blinks. Breathes slowly.

"Rhodey."

The word comes out dry, his throat raw with swallowed fury. Rhodey stands outside the cell. Throws a quick glance at the camera. It's off — for now.

"I don’t have much time" Rhodey whispers. "The hearing’s in a few weeks. Everything’ll be ready by then. Here," he hands over a folded paper "this is what you need to know. Memorize it. Then swallow it."

Tony stands up slowly. Takes the paper. Scans it.

"I could flush it."

Rhodey raises an eyebrow with a smirk.

"Too risky. You’ll have to swallow."

Tony huffs — the closest thing to humor he can manage — and stuffs the paper into his pants pocket.

"Any news?"

Rhodey understands the unspoken question.

"Ben took me to see him yesterday."

Tony’s eyes lock on him.

"And?"

"He’s not doing well. It’s not just the food. He’s... depressed. And angry. Full of it."

Tony frowns.

"You think something’s happening to him?"

Rhodey rolls his eyes. Then answers, bitter:

"You’re what’s happening to him, Tony."

Tony sighs.

"You know what I meant. Are they treating him right?"

"May actually seems to care about the kid. And he’s seeing Octavius tomorrow."

Tony nods slowly. Silence. Heavy. Full of what can’t be said here.

He reaches out, gives Rhodey a quick pat on the arm. Small gesture. But sincere.

"Thanks, teddy bear."

Rhodey exhales, tired.

"Always, dumbass."

 

Chapter 12

Now

Peter had fallen into a routine.

He’d wake up around nine, take a quick shower, and get dressed, taking his time. Then he’d head out to grab breakfast at Rise & Dine — pancakes, French toast, or grilled cheese, depending on his mood that day. Ever since May had gone back to working full-time, homemade meals had become a rare luxury, but Peter didn’t mind.

Back home, he’d spend the next few hours buried in his studies. The school had sent a special schedule to help him stay on track while his enrollment wasn’t officially transferred. May had suggested a few nearby public schools, but Natasha insisted on postponing any decisions until the investigation was over. “No overwhelming him right now,” she had said. And Peter… well, he didn’t exactly feel overwhelmed. Or maybe he did, but he was used to the weight by now.

The daily video calls with Dr. Octavius were helping more than he expected. Some days he’d catch himself smiling without realizing it, days when that constant tightness in his chest wasn’t there. It was subtle, but real — like the future was starting to exist again, slowly. Like happiness wasn’t a ridiculous concept anymore.

He also got back in touch with Ned and MJ. When he turned his phone on for the first time in weeks, he was bombarded with notifications — dozens of messages, missed calls, voice notes. Some from classmates and teachers at Midtown offering support, but most were from Ned and MJ. None from Steve. None from Tony. He tried not to think too hard about that.

Ned cursed him out for disappearing. MJ was oddly quiet, and there was something in her eyes — guilt, maybe — that Peter pretended not to notice. A part of him wanted her to feel guilty. A dark part, one he wasn’t sure how to face yet. But after the initial silence, the three of them fell back into their old rhythm: nonsense, old jokes, complaints about movies. Simple things. Things Peter hadn’t realized he’d missed until he had them back.

Things were going well.

Until, of course, the day of the hearing.

“God, I wish I could be there with you.” May smoothed back a stubborn curl behind his ear for the third time. The gesture was affectionate, but also a nervous distraction. Ever since the date had been confirmed, she’d been shifting between unease and anxiety — which only got worse when the hospital called her in for a last-minute shift. She’d tried to argue, explain, ask to swap. No use. And May couldn’t afford to lose her job. Not now. Not with a son to support.

“Remember, you won’t have to talk to any of them,” she said firmly.

“I know.”

“And Ben and Natasha will be with you the whole time.”

“I know, May.” He closed his eyes briefly as she held his face in one hand. Her palm was warm. Steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It is.” She nodded, maybe more to herself than to him, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. “And when I get back, we’ll order pizza and buy that horrible chocolate ice cream you love.”

Peter laughed, letting himself be pulled into a tight hug.

“Then I can’t wait for you to come back.”

“I love you, Peter. See you soon.”

She let go with a final squeeze, rushing to grab her bag and keys. She was already at the door, about to leave, when Peter called out to her. His heart was racing, fists clenched at his sides. She turned — her eyes full of that unconditional affection that always disarmed him — and he said:

“I love you too.”

For a second, she looked speechless. Then, a smile broke across her face so wide her eyes sparkled.

“See you soon, honey.”

Alone, Peter looked for ways to kill time. He washed the few breakfast dishes, organized the closet, made the bed. When there was nothing left to do, he decided to get ready — even though Ben wouldn’t arrive for almost three hours.

In the shower, he picked the green apple shampoo he’d bought on impulse with May just because the bottle looked fun. He let the hot water run for long minutes, trying to organize his thoughts. He thought about everything and nothing. And when his skin was pink and his fingers pruned, he stepped out and wrapped himself in a fluffy white towel.

In front of the dresser, he paused.

What did people wear to a court hearing? A suit? He didn’t own one. All black? That felt too much. He ended up choosing a pair of black jeans — a little grayish, thanks to their washing machine’s weird habit of fading clothes — and searched through his shirts for one that didn’t have chemistry jokes or Star Wars quotes. He settled on a plain petroleum blue shirt, a dark jacket, and simple sneakers.

He stopped in front of the mirror Ben had installed in the corner of the room. He looked at his reflection in silence. He wondered, absentmindedly, if they would approve of his outfit choice.

Peter passed the time watching YouTube videos, barely registering what was on screen. His mind wouldn’t settle. He ate a bit of leftover chicken strip lasagna, reheated in the microwave, but it tasted like ash.

He was almost dozing off on the couch, sunken between cushions, when he heard the key turning in the door. Ben walked in, still in uniform, holster at his waist.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice lower than usual.

Peter got up. The haze vanished instantly, replaced by a cold knot in his stomach that crept up into his chest. It was time. Ben watched from the doorway, trying to smile, but his eyes gave him away. There was anxiety there. And something else. Something Peter couldn’t name.

In the car, Ben let Peter pick the music. He put on a classic rock playlist — Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Queen. Songs that would normally bring some comfort, a feeling of home. But now… they just filled the silence. The sound passed through him like wind.

Peter rolled down the window, letting the cold air hit his face. He closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in the melody and the rhythm of the road. Just for a few minutes, just until his heartbeat slowed down.

When he opens his eyes again, he knows something’s wrong before he even understands what.

The city is gone.

No buildings. No cars around. No signs. No stores, no people. Just a rough dirt road stretching ahead, dust kicking up behind them, and a strangely overcast sky.

He straightens in his seat, frowning. The radio suddenly cuts out. A dry click, like it was turned off by hand.

Peter slowly turns his head — and meets Ben’s eyes. His stomach twists immediately.

He knows that look. It’s guilt.

“Ben?”

“I need to tell you something.”

Peter shifts slightly, trying to keep his breathing steady. Ben keeps driving, but his knuckles are white from gripping the wheel.

“Ten years ago… May got sick. Breast cancer. It was early, so there was a chance… if she got treatment. But we didn’t have money. Nothing. I was behind on bills, the mortgage was eating us alive, and she… she kept working, even while she was sick. I… I couldn’t watch her die.”

Peter hears it, but his brain won’t accept it. It’s like he’s underwater.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, heart pounding, desperately trying to keep the ground under his feet.

“When you love someone,” Ben says, swallowing hard, “you do whatever it takes.”

Peter stares at him, blood draining from his face. “Ben… what did you…”

“I helped them.”

A thunderclap could’ve hit, and it would’ve hurt less. Time froze. Ben didn’t stop talking.

“I helped them break into your parents’ house. I… I gave them information. And then… I helped sabotage the searches. I delayed reports. Hid clues. I hid you.”

Peter shrinks into his seat. The world spins. His breath comes short. His eyes well up. “No… no…”

“And I’m helping now.”

“No! Ben, please, don’t do this!” His voice cracks.

“I’m sorry, Peter.” Ben looks away. “You’re a good kid. But I can’t—”

Peter starts to cry. “May…?”

“May doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Then she’ll find out! She’ll find out and she’ll help me!”

“That’s not going to happen, Peter.”

Peter screams. Screams from hatred, pain, despair — all at once. He punches the dashboard, the windows. He wants to get out. Wants to wake up.

But he doesn’t.

The car stops. They’re still in the middle of nowhere, only now there’s another car in front of them — black, windows tinted.

Ben turns off the engine.

“Ben, don’t do this. I’m begging you.” Peter sobs, voice choked, clutching his seatbelt like it could somehow save him.

But Ben only says, in the softest voice of the entire conversation:

“Don’t try to come back to us, Peter.”

The doors of the other car open with a metallic click.

Panic floods him. Peter feels everything — cold sweat, churning stomach, tingling hands. Everything inside him screams to run, but his body won’t move. He curls in on himself, covers his eyes like a child, as if not seeing meant it wasn’t real.

But he hears it.

He hears Ben stepping out.
He hears footsteps coming toward him.
Calm. Precise.

The door opens.

“Peter.”

The voice is low, almost a whisper, but it detonates inside him like a bomb. Peter barely reacts — still buried in his hands, body hunched, trembling — when arms wrap around him. There’s no hesitation. Just strength. Firmness. Heat.

The smell hits before the full touch. Familiar. Unmistakable. Loved and hated all at once.

Steve pulls him into his chest with terrifying ease, like Peter’s body was made to fit there. And for one moment — one single, miserable moment — it feels right. Like coming home.

“My love…” Steve murmurs, voice rough, weighted, intimate. His lips brush Peter’s cheek, then his jaw, his neck. Lingering kisses, almost reverent, like he’s tasting something he lost. “I missed you so much. So, so much…”

His large hand strokes Peter’s hair gently, but the grip around his waist is firm. Controlling. He’s not letting go.

Peter hugs him back. At first by reflex. Then with desperation. His fingers dig into Steve’s back, clutching his clothes, like he wants to disappear inside him. There’s hatred, there’s longing, there’s fear and pain that has no name. All tangled together. Just instinct.

“Daddy…” The word slips out low and broken, like it came from somewhere buried, from the child who still called him that in nightmares. Steve’s eyes meet his — still exactly the same. Deep blue. Devoted.

“Yes, baby... Daddy’s here now.” He cups Peter’s face with tender hands, fingers brushing his skin like rediscovering the meaning of touch.

Peter closes his eyes, exhausted, resting his head against the warm palm. For a second, he gives in — just one second — until May’s image cuts through behind his eyelids with cruel clarity. The same gesture. The same tenderness. But with a completely different kind of love.

A sharp pain splits him from the inside: injustice, betrayal, panic.

He moves. First a tremble, then an explosion.
He thrashes, elbows and knees hitting any part of Steve he can reach.
“Let me go! Let me go!”

Desperation turns him wild. His blows are blind, frantic, but full of fury. He hits Steve’s face, chest, arms — anywhere.

Steve stumbles half a step back, stunned, but still grips Peter’s arms tightly. His eyes don’t show fear — just sorrow. Like Peter’s pain was inevitable, and Steve was there to carry it for both of them.

“Shhh, calm down, Peter. I’m here. I love you, it’s okay…”

Peter screams louder, throat raw from effort, hands red from hitting. He’s almost free — almost.

Then the sound comes.
A sharp, final crack.

Peter freezes.

Adrenaline turns to ice in his veins. Instinctively, he clings to Steve again, and when he turns toward the sound, what he sees robs him of words.

Tony is standing.

Still as a statue carved from pride and rage.
The gun already gone from his hand, but the damage too clear to ignore.

Ben lies on the ground, body twitching weakly. Blood drips from his mouth like his lungs are dissolving. His hands claw at his neck in a useless, pathetic reflex. His eyes meet Peter’s for a moment — and then… nothing.

Only silence.

Tony watches the scene with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. Like he’d just crushed a pest.

He starts walking, shoes clicking slowly on the dirt. With every step, his smile grows wider.

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Pete.”

Peter doesn’t respond.
He can’t.

His body shakes, but his muscles won’t move. A single tear slips down his cheek. Tony wipes it away with his thumb, as delicately as if cleaning a smudge from his son’s face.

“Don’t cry, my boy. I forgive you.”

Chapter 13

He remembered fighting. Screaming at the top of his lungs until his voice gave out, begging for help that never came. He remembered Steve’s hands gripping his arms tightly, keeping him from putting any distance between them. He was saying something, quietly, close to Peter’s ear — but the panic was so intense that none of it made sense. The last image that came to mind was Tony approaching with a syringe in hand, saying everything would be fine when he woke up.

But now he was awake — and nothing was fine.

It had been about twenty minutes, maybe less. His body still felt heavy, like it was dragging itself out of a nightmare, but the room around him was far too real to be a dream. He found himself in what seemed like a cabin, with walls and floors made of warm wood, a cozy rug on the floor, and a messy double bed tucked into the corner.

There was a desk near the window. He went to it, pushed more by urgency than by any real plan. The window was locked, of course. But the worst part came when he looked through the glass.

White. In every direction. Thick snow covering the ground, the tree trunks — even the sky looked paler than it should have. It was like he was in the middle of nowhere. No roads, no houses, no signs of life. Just silence and cold wind hitting the motionless branches.

He stepped back, heart pounding. He pressed his back against the wall, his eyes scanning the room for something — anything — he could use. A blade, a tool, a heavy object. Nothing. Not even a pen. Everything there — or the absence of it — seemed carefully designed to give him no options.

On the other side of the door, he heard noises — muffled footsteps, voices. But he didn’t dare approach.

He thought about breaking the window, slipping out before they caught him. But the more he stared at the snow outside, the more reality set in. There was nowhere to run. Even if he managed to escape, he was only wearing a thin pair of pajamas and socks. He wouldn’t last an hour in that cold.

Footsteps approached, he could tell by the creaking floor under the slow, deliberate pace. His heart was racing, his breath coming in gasps with the panic flooding his veins. He did the first thing that came to mind.

“Oh.” Tony blinked, surprised to find Peter sitting on the bed with the blanket covering him completely, except for the tear-filled eyes staring at him in fear. Tony couldn’t help the smile at the sight. “Trying to hide?”

“Stay away,” Peter managed to say, trembling. He gripped the blanket tighter.

The door closed with a soft click. “Now, let’s not get worked up, shall we?” Tony stepped closer with small steps, his gaze briefly drifting out the window before returning to Peter. “How are you feeling?”

“You mean after you drugged me?” Peter didn’t know where he got the courage from, but he couldn’t stop. “Just great. You should try it sometime.”

Tony sat on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself at Peter’s boldness. He could see the kid shaking like a leaf, and still looking him in the eye to give him a smart reply. Few men had such courage, Tony could say, proudly.

“Good to know I have your approval for future doses in case you’re a bad boy.” He threatened subtly. That seemed to have the desired effect because Peter went silent, sinking deeper into his improvised cocoon. “But since you’re being such a wonderful boy for me now, I have a surprise. Want to know what it is?” He didn’t wait for Peter to answer before continuing. “A delicious chocolate cake with lots of frosting. Sounds good, huh?”

Peter didn’t answer, even though the silence that followed was hellishly uncomfortable. Tony watched him carefully, raising a hand to gently pull the blanket from Peter’s face. His cheeks were slightly flushed and wet with fallen tears, and Tony wiped them softly.

“Daddy made stew and a delicious cake for us, Pete. So you’re going to be a good boy, a well-behaved boy, and we’ll have a nice family dinner, okay?” His fingers slid to Peter’s chin, holding it firmly to make his point clear. “I don’t want to have to show you what happens if things don’t go as planned. Do you understand?”

Images of Ben, dead and bloody, flashed through his mind at those words. He forced himself to nod.

“Good boy,” Tony said, satisfied. “Let’s wash that face and then fill that belly, huh? Are you hungry?”

“Thirsty,” Peter muttered, accepting Tony’s offered hand to get up — without many options.

“Easy fix,” Tony winked at him.

As soon as the door opened, Peter was hit by the delicious smell of stew that made his stomach growl and his mouth water. They went into the bathroom to the left, where Tony led him to the sink, hugging him from behind to wash his face while watching him through the mirror. Peter looked so cute that way, a sadistic part of Tony wanted to make him cry more often.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered, and Peter obeyed quickly. It wasn’t even fear guiding his actions anymore, Tony realized, but his natural submission, making him obey every command from those he knew he belonged to. He ran wet fingers over his eyelids, wiping away remnants of sleep and tears. Then slid to his nose, his rosy cheeks, his soft mouth, all with a predatory smile that neither of them saw in the mirror.

Tony hadn’t realized how much he missed Peter — how much he needed him — until he had him back. There he was, hugging Steve during their reunion, so beautiful, so precious, so his, that Tony knew he couldn’t leave loose ends. He wasn’t exactly proud of killing Ben in that moment... but, well, he didn’t regret it either.

He didn’t care that Steve saw the boy as an innocent angel to be protected, arguing with him for hours about supposedly traumatizing Peter — Tony knew the kid would get over it. Beneath all the childishness and naivety, there was a spark, dormant, just waiting to become a wildfire. And may Steve never find out he had such thoughts… but wouldn’t it be sweet if Peter became his little partner in crime? Helping daddy rid the world of the filthy scum that inhabits it?

The thought warmed his chest, and he hugged him from behind, pressing his body against his, gently brushing his face against Peter’s neck, leaving a solitary kiss there.

“I love you.”

Peter squirmed in his arms with a grimace.

“Can we go?”

“Only when you say you love me back.”

“Stop it.” He glared at him through the mirror, annoyed, and growled the next words. “I love you. Happy? Can we go?”

“You first.” Tony opened the door, leaving just enough space for Peter to slip through.

With a scowl, Peter slid past, ignoring the kiss Tony left on his shoulder as he passed.

He wasn’t exactly eager to see Steve, but anything was better than being stuck in a tight space with Tony. He found him in the kitchen — simple, compared to the place they used to live — with his back turned, washing a pot in the sink. Peter didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t need to. Tony appeared a second later, behind him, announcing:

“Look who came to eat, Steve.”

Steve’s head turned so fast it probably hurt, but the smile that grew on his face didn’t show it. He dropped the pot, grabbing a dish towel to dry his hands, never taking his eyes off Peter as he approached with restrained steps. They stood there, face to face, just staring.

“Nice talk,” Tony joked, lightly squeezing his shoulder.

Steve seemed to realize the silence at that moment, letting out a brief laugh and shaking his head.

“Sorry. I’ll serve your food.”

Peter went to the chair and sat down, not knowing what else to do. He still didn’t know what the two of them expected from him, but he knew he needed to cooperate until May could find him. He didn’t think Tony would kill him — but then again, he also didn’t think Tony was capable of killing anything. Better not to trust his intuition too much.

Steve placed three bowls of stew on the table, along with a bowl of buttered toast. Peter only realized how hungry he was when he took the first spoonful — he devoured everything quickly, not caring about the small floating cubes of carrot.

“Were you in solitary confinement or something?” Tony teased. He wanted to see how long Peter would keep up the good boy act.

“Stop it, Tony.” Steve stepped in, grabbing a napkin and gently wiping the corner of Peter’s mouth. Peter didn’t even notice when he moved his chair so close, but he didn’t pull away. “You can eat as much as you want, love.”

Tony shrugged.

“Just saying.”

“Then it’s better if you don’t say anything,” Peter muttered, clenching his fists so tightly under the table his nails nearly broke the skin.

“Dessert time!” Steve interjected, getting up to grab the cake from the counter. Lots of chocolate, just the way he knew Peter loved it. “Hope you saved room for cake.”

“Give him some water first, Steve.”

“Oh, sorry.” Steve ran a hand down Peter’s face as he went to the fridge. “I made orange juice too, if you prefer. I forgot to give it to you.”

“Water’s fine.”

The stew helped soothe his dry throat, but Peter still drank two full glasses of water before feeling satisfied. Steve placed a generous slice of chocolate cake in front of him, and Peter couldn’t help but remember the last conversation he had with May — when they agreed to get ice cream together after getting home.

The memory tightened his throat. Once again, nothing would ever be the same. When — and not if — May found him, would she forgive him for being the reason Ben died? He knew she was too good, too kind not to take him back, but he didn’t want to see her slowly resent him for appearing in her life only to destroy everything.

Tears blurred his vision. He heard Steve call his name, worried, but he didn’t look away from the cake. That had always been his favorite dessert. Was it poisoned this time? Had they kidnapped him again just to finish what they started?

And if it was? Would it really be that bad? One bite, and then sleep forever in the arms of those he still loved more than anything in the world.

But maybe not. Maybe it was just a regular cake, like so many before. Maybe Steve and Tony just wanted to take care of him again. And maybe May wouldn’t blame him. Maybe she’d find him, hug him, and say everything would be okay — that they were together, and that’s what mattered.

Uncertainty was cruel. And the only thing Peter was sure of in that moment was: he didn’t want to be alone.

“Why are you crying, my love?” Steve pulled him close, moving him until his face rested comfortably on his shoulder. He smelled stronger there — warm and comforting in ways Peter hated but also loved.

“Talk to me.”

“I want to go home.” He begged. But which home? The one with May and Ben, where he was starting to settle in and be happy? Or his old home, his old self, when he was oblivious to everything and could love his parents without guilt, without fear, without doubt?

“You are home now.” Steve replied, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I’m here with you.”

Peter’s stomach flipped. Steve looked at him with so much love, so much adoration… and that’s when he realized how much he missed that. How much he loved being loved like that. His gaze shifted to Tony, who watched the scene with a satisfied smile. As if this was what he had wanted all along.

And Peter knew then, to his shameful satisfaction: he would never be alone, because they would never let him go.

He threw up all over the floor.

Notes:

I know, I know... I took so long to post, and when I finally do, it’s so short? I’m really sorry about that.
I’ve been struggling to continue this story, especially because of a lack of motivation. But after thinking it over, I realized that the problem was my dissatisfaction with the earlier chapters. I even considered abandoning it, but the amazing comments I’ve received from you all made me realize that wouldn’t be fair. So, I’ve decided to take some time to update the previous chapters in a way that I’m happier with, so I can keep moving forward with the story. It’s not a lack of ideas — quite the opposite! I have plenty planned that I’m sure you’ll enjoy. In fact, the next chapter is already partially written. I just need to update the earlier chapters to get my motivation back for this story.

Oh, and by the way, I posted a new story with a theme very similar to this one! Check it out on my profile — I think you’ll like it too.

Now, tell me: what did you think of this chapter? Poor Peter is going through so many conflicting emotions right now!

Notes:

I apologize if the translation wasn't very good, English isn't my first language. Please, if you liked this story, leave feedback in the comments.